TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 


TALES  OF  THE 
JAZZ  AGE 


BY 

F.  SCOTT  FITZGERALD 


11039 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT,  1920.  BY  THE  VANITY  FAIR  PUB.  CO.,  INC. 
COPYRIGHT,  1920.  1921,  BY  THE  METROPOLITAN  PUBLICATIONS,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY  THE  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE 

COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1920,  1921,  BY  THE  SMART   SET  CO. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  September,  1922 


LOAN  STACK 


QUITE   INAPPROPRIATELY 
TO   MY   MOTHER 


835 


A  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

MY  LAST  FLAPPERS 

THE  JELLY-BEAN Page  3 

This  is  a  Southern  story,  with  the  scene  laid  in  the  small  city 
of  Tarleton,  Georgia.  I  have  a  profound  affection  for  Tarleton , 
but  somehow  whenever  I  write  a  story  about  it  I  receive  letters 
from  all  over  the  South  denouncing  me  in  no  uncertain  terms. 
"The  Jelly-Bean,"  published  in  <(The  Metropolitan,"  drew 
its  full  share  of  these  admonitory  notes. 

It  was  written  under  strange  circumstances  shortly  after  my 
first  novel  was  published,  and,  moreover,  it  was  the  first  story  in 
which  I  had  a  collaborator.  For,  finding  that  I  was  unable  to 
manage  the  crap-shooting  episode,  I  turned  it  over  to  my  wife, 
who,  as  a  Southern  girl,  was  presumably  an  expert  on  the  tech 
nique  and  terminology  of  that  great  sectional  pastime. 

TEE  CAMEL'S  BACK Page  27 

/  suppose  that  of  all  the  stories  I  have  ever  written  this  one 
cost  me  the  least  travail  and  perhaps  gave  me  the  most  amuse 
ment.  As  to  the  labor  involved,  it  was  written  during  one  day 
in  the  city  of  New  Orleans,  with  the  express  purpose  of  buying 
a  platinum  and  diamond  wrist  watch  which  cost  six  hundred 
dollars.  I  began  it  at  seven  in  the  morning  and  finished  it  at 
two  o'clock  the  same  night.  It  was  published  in  the  "  Saturday 
Evening  Post"  in  1920,  and  later  included  in  the  O.  Henry 
Memorial  Collection  for  the  same  year.  I  like  it  least  of  all 
the  stories  in  this  volume. 

My  amusement  was  derived  from  the  fact  that  the  camel  part 
of  the  story  is  literally  true ;  in  fact,  I  have  a  standing  engage 
ment  with  the  gentleman  involved  to  attend  the  next  fancy-dress 
party  to  which  we  are  mutually  invited,  attired  as  the  latter  part 
of  the  camel — this  as  a  sort  of  atonement  for  being  his  historian. 

vii 


viii  A  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

MAYDAY Page6i 

This  somewhat  unpleasant  tale,  published  as  a  novelette  in 
the  "Smart  Set"  in  July,  1920,  relates  a  series  of  events  which 
took  place  in  the  spring  of  the  previous  year.  Each  of  the  three 
events  made  a  great  impression  upon  me.  In  life  they  were 
unrelated,  except  by  the  general  hysteria  of  that  spring  which 
inaugurated  the  Age  of  Jazz,  but  in  my  story  I  have  tried,  un 
successfully  I  fear,  to  weave  them  into  a  pattern — a  pattern 
which  would  give  the  effect  of  those  months  in  New  York  as  they 
appeared  to  at  least  one  member  of  what  was  then  the  younger 
generation. 

PORCELAIN  AND  PINK Page  126 

" And  do  you  write  for  any  other  magazines?"  inquired  the 
young  lady. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  assured  her.  "I've  had  some  stories  and  plays 
in  the  'Smart  Set,1  for  instance " 

The  young  lady  shivered. 

"The1  Smart  Set1 1"  she  exclaimed.  "How  can  you?  Why, 
they  publish  stuff  about  girls  in  blue  bathtubs,  and  silly  things 
like  that  I" 

And  I  had  the  magnificent  joy  of  telling  her  that  she  was  re 
ferring  to  "Porcelain  and  Pink"  which  had  appeared  there 
several  months  before. 

FANTASIES 

THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ    .    Page  141 

These  next  stories  are  written  in  what,  were  I  of  imposing 
stature,  I  should  call  my  "second  manner"  "The  Diamond 
as  Big  as  the  Ritz,"  which  appeared  last  summer  in  the  "Smart 
Set"  was  designed  utterly  for  my  own  amusement.  I  was  in 
that  familiar  mood  characterized  by  a  perfect  craving  for  luxury, 
and  the  story  began  as  an  attempt  to  feed  that  craving  on  im~ 
ginary  foods. 

One  well-known  critic  has  been  pleased  to  like  this  extrava 
ganza  better  than  anything  I  have  written.  Personally  I  prefer 
"  The  Of  Shore  Pirate."  But,  to  tamper  slightly  with  Lincoln : 
If  you  like  this  sort  of  thing,  this,  possibly,  is  the  sort  of  thing 
you'll  like. 


A   TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  k 

THE  CURIOUS  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN 

BUTTON Page  192 

This  story  was  inspired  by  a  remark  of  Mark  Twain's  to  the 
effect  that  it  was  a  pity  that  the  best  part  of  life  came  at  the 
beginning  and  the  worst  part  at  the  end.  By  trying  the  ex 
periment  upon  only  one  man  in  a  perfectly  normal  world  I 
have  scarcely  given  his  idea  a  fair  trial.  Several  weeks  after 
completing  it,  I  discovered  an  almost  identical  plot  in  Samuel 
Butler's  "Note-books." 

The  story  was  published  in  "Collier's"  last  summer  and 
provoked  this  startling  letter  from  an  anonymous  admirer  in 
Cincinnati  : 

"Sir— 

I  have  read  the  story  Benjamin  Button  in  Colliers  and  I 
wish  to  say  that  as  a  short  story  writer  you  would  make  a  good 
lunatic  I  have  seen  many  peices  of  cheese  in  my  life  but  of  all 
the  peices  of  cheese  I  have  ever  seen  you  are  the  biggest  peice. 
I  hate  to  waste  a  peice  of  stationary  on  you  but  I  will" 

TARQUIN  OF  CHEAPSIDE Page  225 

Written  almost  six  years  ago,  this  story  is  a  product  of  under 
graduate  days  at  Princeton.  Considerably  revised,  it  was  pub 
lished  in  the  "  Smart  Set "  in  1921.  At  the  time  of  its  conception 
I  had  but  one  idea — to  be  a  poet — and  the  fact  that  I  was  in 
terested  in  the  ring  of  every  phrase,  that  I  dreaded  the  obvious 
in  prose  if  not  in  plot,  shows  throughout.  Probably  the  peculiar 
affection  I  feel  for  it  depends  more  upon  its  age  than  upon  any 
intrinsic  merit. 

O  RUSSET  WITCH! Page  234 

When  this  was  written  I  had  just  completed  the  first  draft  of  my 
second  novel,  and  a  natural  reaction  made  me  revel  in  a  story 
wherein  none  of  the  characters  need  be  taken  seriously.  AndFm 
afraid  that  I  was  somewhat  carried  away  by  the  feeling  that  there 
was  no  ordered  scheme  to  which  I  must  conform.  After  due  con 
sideration,  however,  I  have  decided  to  let  it  stand  as  it  is,  although 
the  reader  may  find  himself  somewhat  puzzled  at  the  time  ele 
ment.  I  had  best  say  that  however  the  years  may  have  dealt  with 
Merlin  Grainger,  I  myself  was  thinking  always  in  the  present. 

It  was  published  in  the  "Metropolitan" 


A  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


UNCLASSIFIED   MASTERPIECES 

THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS Page  275 

Of  this  story  I  can  say  that  it  came  to  me  in  an  irresistible 
form,  crying  to  be  written.  It  will  be  accused  perhaps  of  being 
a  mere  piece  of  sentimentality,  but,  as  I  saw  it,  it  was  a  great 
deal  more.  If,  therefore,  it  lacks  the  ring  of  sincerity,  or  even 
of  tragedy,  the  fault  rests  not  with  the  theme  but  with  my  han 
dling  of  it. 

It  appeared  in  the  u  Chicago  Tribune"  and  later  obtained, 
I  believe,  the  quadruple  gold  laurel  leaf  or  some  such  encomium 
from  one  of  the  anthologists  who  at  present  swarm  among  us. 
The  gentleman  I  refer  to  runs  as  a  rule  to  stark  melodramas 
with  a  volcano  or  the  ghost  of  John  Paul  Jones  in  the  role  of 
Nemesis,  melodramas  carefully  disguised  by  early  paragraphs 
in  Jamesian  manner  which  hint  dark  and  subtle  complexities 
to  follow.  On  this  order : 

11  The  case  of  Shaw  McPhee,  curiously  enough,  had  no  bear 
ing  on  the  almost  incredible  attitude  of  Martin  Sulo.  This  is 
parenthetical  and,  to  at  least  three  observers,  whose  names  for 
the  present  I  must  conceal,  it  seems  improbable,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.," 
until  the  poor  rat  of  fiction  is  at  last  forced  out  into  the  open 
and  the  melodrama  begins. 

MR.  ICKY Page  302 

This  has  the  distinction  of  being  the  only  magazine  piece 
ever  written  in  a  New  York  hotel.  The  business  was  done  in 
a  bedroom  in  the  Knickerbocker,  and  shortly  afterward  that 
memorable  hostelry  closed  its  doors  forever. 

When  a  fitting  period  of  mourning  had  elapsed  it  was  pub 
lished  in  the  u  Smart  Set." 


JEMINA        Page  311 

Written,  like  "  Tarquin  of  Cheapside,"  while  I  was  at  Prince 
ton,  this  sketch  was  published  years  later  in  " Vanity  Fair" 
For  its  technique  I  must  apologize  to  Mr.  Stephen  Leacock. 

I  have  laughed  over  it  a  great  deal,  especially  when  I  first 
wrote  it,  but  I  can  laugh  over  it  no  longer.  Still,  as  other  people 


A  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  xi 

tell  me  it  is  amusing,  I  include  it  here.  It  seems  to  me  worth 
preserving  a  few  years — at  least  until  the  ennui  of  changing 
fashions  suppresses  me,  my  books,  and  it  together. 

With  due  apologies  for  this  impossible  Table  of  Contents,  I 
tender  these  tales  of  the  Jazz  Age  into  the  hands  of  those  who 
read  as  they  run  and  run  as  they  read. 


MY  LAST  FLAPPERS 


THE  JELLY-BEAN 

JIM  POWELL  was  a  Jelly-bean.  Much  as  I  desire  to 
make  him  an  appealing  character,  I  feel  that  it  would 
be  unscrupulous  to  deceive  you  on  that  point.  He  was 
a  bred-in-the-bone,  dyed-in-the-wool,  ninety-nine  three- 
quarters  per  cent  Jelly-bean  and  he  grew  lazily  all  during 
Jelly-bean  season,  which  is  every  season,  down  in  the 
land  of  the  Jelly-beans  well  below  the  Mason-Dixon  line. 

Now  if  you  call  a  Memphis  man  a  Jelly-bean  he  will 
quite  possibly  pull  a  long  sinewy  rope  from  his  hip 
pocket  and  hang  you  to  a  convenient  telegraph-pole. 
If  you  call  a  New  Orleans  man  a  Jelly-bean  he  will  prob 
ably  grin  and  ask  you  who  is  taking  your  girl  to  the 
Mardi  Gras  ball.  The  particular  Jelly-bean  patch 
which  produced  the  protagonist  of  this  history  lies 
somewhere  between  the  two — a  little  city  of  forty  thou 
sand  that  has  dozed  sleepily  for  forty  thousand  years  in 
southern  Georgia,  occasionally  stirring  in  its  slumbers 
and  muttering  something  about  a  war  that  took  place 
sometime,  somewhere,  and  that  everyone  else  has  for 
gotten  long  ago. 

Jim  was  a  Jelly-bean.  I  write  that  again  because  it 
has  such  a  pleasant  sound — rather  like  the  beginning  of 
a  fairy  story — as  if  Jim  were  nice.  It  somehow  gives 
me  a  picture  of  him  with  a  round,  appetizing  face  and 
all  sorts  of  leaves  and  vegetables  growing  out  of  his  cap. 
But  Jim  was  long  and  thin  and  bent  at  the  waist  from 
stooping  over  pool-tables,  and  he  was  what  might  have 
been  known  in  the  indiscriminating  North  as  a  corner 
loafer.  " Jelly-bean"  is  the  name  throughout  the  un- 
dissolved  Confederacy  for  one  who  spends  his  life  con- 

3 


4  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

jugating  the  verb  to  idle  in  the  first  person  singular — I 
am  idling,  I  have  idled,  I  will  idle. 

Jim  was  born  in  a  white  house  on  a  green  corner.  It 
had  four  weather-beaten  pillars  in  front  and  a  great 
amount  of  lattice-work  in  the  rear  that  made  a  cheerful 
criss-cross  background  for  a  flowery  sun-drenched  lawn. 
Originally  the  dwellers  in  the  white  house  had  owned 
the  ground  next  door  and  next  door  to  that  and  next 
door  to  that,  but  this  had  been  so  long  ago  that  even 
Jim's  father  scarcely  remembered  it.  He  had,  in  fact, 
thought  it  a  matter  of  so  little  moment  that  when  he 
was  dying  from  a  pistol  wound  got  in  a  brawl  he  neglected 
even  to  tell  little  Jim,  who  was  five  years  old  and  miser 
ably  frightened.  The  white  house  became  a  boarding- 
house  run  by  a  tight-lipped  lady  from  Macon,  whom 
Jim  called  Aunt  Mamie  and  detested  with  all  his  soul. 

He  became  fifteen,  went  to  high  school,  wore  his  hair 
in  black  snarls,  and  was  afraid  of  girls.  He  hated  his 
home  where  four  women  and  one  old  man  prolonged 
an  interminable  chatter  from  summer  to  summer  about 
what  lots  the  Powell  place  had  originally  included  and 
what  sort  of  flowers  would  be  out  next.  Sometimes 
the  parents  of  little  girls  in  town,  remembering  Jim's 
mother  and  fancying  a  resemblance  in  the  dark  eyes 
and  hair,  invited  him  to  parties,  but  parties  made 
him  shy  and  he  much  preferred  sitting  on  a  dis 
connected  axle  in  Tilly's  Garage,  rolling  the  bones  or 
exploring  his  mouth  endlessly  with  a  long  straw.  For 
pocket  money,  he  picked  up  odd  jobs,  and  it  was  due  to 
this  that  he  stopped  going  to  parties.  At  his  third 
party  little  Marjorie  Haight  had  whispered  indiscreetly 
and  within  hearing  distance  that  he  was  a  boy  who 
brought  the  groceries  sometimes.  So  instead  of  the 
two-step  and  polka,  Jim  had  learned  to  throw  any 
number  he  desired  on  the  dice  and  had  listened  to  spicy 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  5 

tales  of  all  the  shootings  that  had  occurred  in  the  sur 
rounding  country  during  the  past  fifty  years. 

He  became  eighteen.  The  war  broke  out  and  he 
enlisted  as  a  gob  and  polished  brass  in  the  Charleston 
Navy-yard  for  a  year.  Then,  by  way  of  variety,  he 
went  North  and  polished  brass  in  the  Brooklyn  Navy- 
yard  for  a  year. 

When  the  war  was  over  he  came  home.  He  was 
twenty-one,  his  trousers  were  too  short  and  too  tight. 
His  buttoned  shoes  were  long  and  narrow.  His  tie  was 
an  alarming  conspiracy  of  purple  and  pink  marvellously 
scrolled,  and  over  it  were  two  blue  eyes  faded  like  a 
piece  of  very  good  old  cloth  long  exposed  to  the  sun. 

In  the  twilight  of  one  April  evening  when  a  soft 
gray  had  drifted  down  along  the  cottonfields  and  over 
the  sultry  town,  he  was  a  vague  figure  leaning  against 
a  board  fence,  whistling  and  gazing  at  the  moon's  rim 
above  the  lights  of  Jackson  Street.  His  mind  was  work 
ing  persistently  on  a  problem  that  had  held  his  attention 
for  an  hour.  The  Jelly-bean  had  been  invited  to  a 
party. 

Back  in  the  days  when  all  the  boys  had  detested  all 
the  girls,  Clark  Darrow  and  Jim  had  sat  side  by  side  in 
school.  But,  while  Jim's  social  aspirations  had  died 
in  the  oily  air  of  the  garage,  Clark  had  alternately  fallen 
in  and  out  of  love,  gone  to  college,  taken  to  drink,  given 
it  up,  and,  in  short,  become  one  of  the  best  beaux  of  the 
town.  Nevertheless  Clark  and  Jim  had  retained  a  friend 
ship  that,  though  casual,  was  perfectly  definite.  That 
afternoon  Clark's  ancient  Ford  had  slowed  up  beside 
Jim,  who  was  on  the  sidewalk  and,  out  of  a  clear  sky, 
Clark  had  invited  him  to  a  party  at  the  country  club. 
The  impulse  that  made  him  do  this  was  no  stranger 
than  the  impulse  which  made  Jim  accept.  The  latter 
was  probably  an  unconscious  ennui,  a  half-frightened 


6  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

sense  of  adventure.    And  now  Jim  was  soberly  think 
ing  it  over. 

He  began  to  sing,  drumming  his  long  foot  idly  on  a 
stone  block  in  the  sidewalk  till  it  wobbled  up  and  down 
in  time  to  the  low  throaty  tune: 

"One  mile  from  Home  in  Jelly-bean  town, 
Lives  Jeanne,  the  Jelly-bean  Queen. 
She  loves  her  dice  and  treats  'em  nice  ; 
No  dice  would  treat  her  mean." 

He  broke  off  and  agitated  the  sidewalk  to  a  bumpy 
gallop. 

"Daggone!"  he  muttered,  half  aloud. 

They  would  all  be  there — the  old  crowd,  the  crowd 
to  which,  by  right  of  the  white  house,  sold  long 
since,  and  the  portrait  of  the  officer  in  gray  over  the 
mantel,  Jim  should  have  belonged.  But  that  crowd 
had  grown  up  together  into  a  tight  little  set  as  gradu 
ally  as  the  girls'  dresses  had  lengthened  inch  by  inch, 
as  definitely  as  the  boys'  trousers  had  dropped  suddenly 
to  their  ankles.  And  to  that  society  of  first  names  and 
dead  puppy-loves  Jim  was  an  outsider — a  running  mate 
of  poor  whites.  Most  of  the  men  knew  him,  con 
descendingly;  he  tipped  his  hat  to  three  or  four  girls. 
That  was  all. 

When  the  dusk  had  thickened  into  a  blue  setting  for 
the  moon,  he  walked  through  the  hot,  pleasantly 
pungent  town  to  Jackson  Street.  The  stores  were  closing 
and  the  last  shoppers  were  drifting  homeward,  as  if  borne 
on  the  dreamy  revolution  of  a  slow  merry-go-round.  A 
street-fair  farther  down  made  a  brilliant  alley  of  vari 
colored  booths  and  contributed  a  blend  of  music  to  the 
night — an  oriental  dance  on  a  calliope,  a  melancholy 
bugle  in  front  of  a  freak  show,  a  cheerful  rendition  of 
"Back  Home  in  Tennessee"  on  a  hand-organ. 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  7 

The  Jelly-bean  stopped  in  a  store  and  bought  a  collar. 
Then  he  sauntered  along  toward  Soda  Sam's,  where  he 
found  the  usual  three  or  four  cars  of  a  summer  evening 
parked  in  front  and  the  little  darkies  running  back  and 
forth  with  sundaes  and  lemonades. 

"Hello,  Jim." 

It  was  a  voice  at  his  elbow — Joe  Ewing  sitting  in 
an  automobile  with  Marylyn  Wade.  Nancy  Lamar  and 
a  strange  man  were  in  the  back  seat. 

The  Jelly-bean  tipped  his  hat  quickly. 

"Hi,  Ben — "  then,  after  an  almost  imperceptible 
pause— "How  y'  all?" 

Passing,  he  ambled  on  toward  the  garage  where  he 
had  a  room  up-stairs.  His  "How  y'  all "  had  been  said  to 
Nancy  Lamar,  to  whom  he  had  not  spoken  in  fifteen  years. 

Nancy  had  a  mouth  like  a  remembered  kiss  and 
shadowy  eyes  and  blue-black  hair  inherited  from  her 
mother  who  had  been  born  in  Budapest.  Jim  passed 
her  often  in  the  street,  walking  small-boy  fashion  with 
her  hands  in  her  pockets  and  he  knew  that  with  her 
inseparable  Sally  Carrol  Hopper  she  had  left  a  trail  of 
broken  hearts  from  Atlanta  to  New  Orleans. 

For  a  few  fleeting  moments  Jim  wished  he  could 
dance.  Then  he  laughed  and  as  he  reached  his  door 
began  to  sing  softly  to  himself: 

"Her  Jelly  Roll  can  twist  your  soul, 
Her  eyes  are  big  and  brown, 
She's  the  Queen  of  the  Queens  of  the  Jelly-beans — 
My  Jeanne  of  Jelly-bean  Town" 

II 

At  nine-thirty  Jim  and  Clark  met  in  front  of  Soda 
Sam's  and  started  for  the  Country  Club  in  Clark's 
Ford. 


8  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Jim,"  as^ed  Clark  casually,  as  they  rattled  through 
the  jasmine-scented  night,  "how  do  you  keep  alive  ?" 

The  Jelly-bean  paused,  considered. 

"IVell,"  he  said  finally,  "I  got  a  room  over  Tilly's 
garage.  I  help  him  some  with  the  cars  in  the  afternoon 
an'  he  gives  it  to  me  free.  Sometimes  I  drive  one  of 
his  taxies  and  pick  up  a  little  thataway.  I  get  fed  up 
doin'  that  regular  though." 

" That  all?" 

"Well,  when  there's  a  lot  of  work  I  help  him  by  the 
day — Saturdays  usually — and  then  there's  one  main 
source  of  revenue  I  don't  generally  mention.  Maybe 
you  don't  recollect  I'm  about  the  champion  crap-shooter 
of  this  town.  They  make  me  shoot  from  a  cup  now 
because  once  I  get  the  feel  of  a  pair  of  dice  they  just  roll 
for  me." 

Clark  grinned  appreciatively. 

"I  never  could  learn  to  set  'em  so's  they'd  do  what  I 
wanted.  Wish  you'd  shoot  with  Nancy  Lamar  some 
day  and  take  all  her  money  away  from  her.  She  will  roll 
'em  with  the  boys  and  she  loses  more  than  her  daddy  can 
afford  to  give  her.  I  happen  to  know  she  sold  a  good 
ring  last  month  to  pay  a  debt." 

The  Jelly-bean  was  non-committal. 

"The  white  house  on  Elm  Street  still  belong  to  you  ?" 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

"Sold.  Got  a  pretty  good  price,  seein'  it  wasn't 
in  a  good  part  of  town  no  more.  Lawyer  told  me  to 
put  it  into  Liberty  bonds.  But  Aunt  Mamie  got  so  she 
didn't  have  no  sense,  so  it  takes  all  the  interest  to  keep 
her  up  at  Great  Farms  Sanitarium. 

"Hm." 

"I  got  an  old  uncle  up-state  an'  I  reckin  I  kin  go  up 
there  if  ever  I  get  sure  enough  pore.  Nice  farm,  but 
not  enough  niggers  around  to  work  it.  He's  asked  me 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  9 

to  come  up  and  help  him,  but  I  don't  guess  I'd  take 
much  to  it.  Too  doggone  lonesome—  He  broke  off 

suddenly.  "  Clark,  I  want  to  tell  you  I'm  much  obliged 
to  you  for  askin'  me  out,  but  I'd  be  a  lot  happier  if  you'd 
just  stop  the  car  right  here  an'  let  me  walk  back  into 
town." 

" Shucks!"  Clark  grunted.  "Do  you  good  to  step 
out.  You  don't  have  to  dance — just  get  out  there  on 
the  floor  and  shake." 

"Hold  on,"  exclaimed  Jim  uneasily,  "Don't  you  go 
leadin'  me  up  to  any  girls  and  leavin'  me  there  so  I'll 
have  to  dance  with  'em." 

Clark  laughed. 

"'Cause,"  continued  Jim  desperately,  "without  you 
swear  you  won't  do  that  I'm  agoin'  to  get  out  right 
here  an'  my  good  legs  goin'  carry  me  back  to  Jackson 
Street." 

They  agreed  after  some  argument  that  Jim,  unmo 
lested  by  females,  was  to  view  the  spectacle  from  a 
secluded  settee  in  the  corner  where  Clark  would  join 
him  whenever  he  wasn't  dancing. 

So  ten  o'clock  found  the  Jelly-bean  with  his  legs 
crossed  and  his  arms  conservatively  folded,  trying  to 
look  casually  at  home  and  politely  uninterested  in  the 
dancers.  At  heart  he  was  torn  between  overwhelming 
self-consciousness  and  an  intense  curiosity  as  to  all 
that  went  on  around  him.  He  saw  the  girls  emerge 
one  by  one  from  the  dressing-room,  stretching  and  plum 
ing  themselves  like  bright  birds,  smiling  over  their 
powdered  shoulders  at  the  chaperones,  casting  a  quick 
glance  around  to  take  in  the  room  and,  simultaneously, 
the  room's  reaction  to  their  entrance — and  then,  again 
like  birds,  alighting  and  nestling  in  the  sober  arms  of 
their  waiting  escorts.  Sally  Carrol  Hopper,  blonde  and 
lazy-eyed,  appeared  clad  in  her  favorite  pink  and  blink- 


io  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

ing  like  an  awakened  rose.  Marjorie  Haight,  Marylyn 
Wade,  Harriet  Gary,  all  the  girls  he  had  seen  loitering 
down  Jackson  Street  by  noon,  now,  curled  and  bril- 
liantined  and  delicately  tinted  for  the  overhead  lights, 
were  miraculously  strange  Dresden  figures  of  pink  and 
blue  and  red  and  gold,  fresh  from  the  shop  and  not  yet 
fully  dried. 

He  had  been  there  half  an  hour,  totally  uncheered 
by  Clark's  jovial  visits  which  were  each  one  accom 
panied  by  a  "Hello,  old  boy,  how  you  making  out?" 
and  a  slap  at  his  knee.  A  dozen  males  had  spoken  to 
him  or  stopped  for  a  moment  beside  him,  but  he  knew 
that  they  were  each  one  surprised  at  finding  him  there 
and  fancied  that  one  or  two  were  even  slightly  resent 
ful.  But  at  half  past  ten  his  embarrassment  suddenly 
left  him  and  a  pull  of  breathless  interest  took  him  com 
pletely  out  of  himself — Nancy  Lamar  had  come  out  of 
the  dressing-room. 

She  was  dressed  in  yellow  organdie,  a  costume  of  a 
hundred  cool  corners,  with  three  tiers  of  ruffles  and  a 
big  bow  in  back  until  she  shed  black  and  yellow  around 
her  in  a  sort  of  phosphorescent  lustre.  The  Jelly-bean's 
eyes  opened  wide  and  a  lump  arose  in  his  throat.  For 
a  minute  she  stood  beside  the  door  until  her  partner 
hurried  up.  Jim  recognized  him  as  the  stranger  who 
had  been  with  her  in  Joe  Swing's  car  that  afternoon. 
He  saw  her  set  her  arms  akimbo  and  say  something  in 
a  low  voice,  and  laugh.  The  man  laughed  too  and  Jim 
experienced  the  quick  pang  of  a  weird  new  kind  of  pain. 
Some  ray  had  passed  between  the  pair,  a  shaft  of 
beauty  from  that  sun  that  had  warmed  him  a  moment 
since.  The  Jelly-bean  felt  suddenly  like  a  weed  in  a 
shadow. 

A  minute  later  Clark  approached  him,  bright-eyed 
and  glowing. 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  n 

"Hi,  old  man,"  he  cried  with  some  lack  of  originality. 
"How  you  making  out?" 

Jim  replied  that  he  was  making  out  as  well  as  could 
be  expected. 

"You  come  along  with  me,"  commanded  Clark. 
"I've  got  something  that'll  put  an  edge  on  the  eve 
ning." 

Jim  followed  him  awkwardly  across  the  floor  and  up 
the  stairs  to  the  locker-room  where  Clark  produced  a 
flask  of  nameless  yellow  liquid. 

"Good  old  corn." 

Ginger  ale  arrived  on  a  tray.  Such  potent  nectar 
as  "good  old  corn"  needed  some  disguise  beyond  seltzer. 

"Say,  boy,"  exclaimed  Clark  breathlessly,  "doesn't 
Nancy  Lamar  look  beautiful?" 

Jim  nodded. 

"Mighty  beautiful,"  he  agreed. 

"She's  all  dolled  up  to  a  fare-you-well  to-night," 
continued  Clark.  "Notice  that  fellow  she's  with  ?" 

"Big  fella?    White  pants?" 

"Yeah.  Well,  that's  Ogden  Merritt  from  Savannah. 
Old  man  Merritt  makes  the  Merritt  safety  razors. 
This  fella's  crazy  about  her.  Been  chasing  after  her 
all  year. 

"She's  a  wild  baby,"  continued  Clark,  "but  I  like 
her.  So  does  everybody.  But  she  sure  does  do  crazy 
stunts.  She  usually  gets  out  alive,  but  she's  got  scars 
all  over  her  reputation  from  one  thing  or  another  she's 
done." 

"That  so?"  Jim  passed  over  his  glass.  "That's 
good  corn." 

"Not  so  bad.  Oh,  she's  a  wild  one.  Shoots  craps, 
say,  boy!  And  she  do  like  her  high-balls.  Promised 
I'd  give  her  one  later  on." 

"She  in  love  with  this— Merritt  ?" 


12  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Damned  if  I  know.  Seems  like  all  the  best  girls 
around  here  marry  fellas  and  go  off  somewhere." 

He  poured  himself  one  more  drink  and  carefully 
corked  the  bottle. 

"  Listen,  Jim,  I  got  to  go  dance  and  I'd  be  much 
obliged  if  you  just  stick  this  corn  right  on  your  hip  as 
long  as  you're  not  dancing.  If  a  man  notices  I've  had 
a  drink  hell  come  up  and  ask  me  and  before  I  know  it 
it's  all  gone  and  somebody  else  is  having  my  good  time." 

So  Nancy  Lamar  was  going  to  marry.  This  toast  of 
a  town  was  to  become  the  private  property  of  an  indi 
vidual  in  white  trousers — and  all  because  white  trousers' 
father  had  made  a  better  razor  than  his  neighbor.  As 
they  descended  the  stairs  Jim  found  the  idea  inex 
plicably  depressing.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  felt  a  vague  and  romantic  yearning.  A  picture  of 
her  began  to  form  in  his  imagination — Nancy  walking 
boylike  and  debonnaire  along  the  street,  taking  an 
orange  as  tithe  from  a  worshipful  fruit-dealer,  charg 
ing  a  dope  on  a  mythical  account  at  Soda  Sam's,  as 
sembling  a  convoy  of  beaux  and  then  driving  off  in  trium 
phal  state  for  an  afternoon  of  splashing  and  singing. 

The  Jelly-bean  walked  out  on  the  porch  to  a  deserted 
corner,  dark  between  the  moon  on  the  lawn  and  the 
single  lighted  door  of  the  ballroom.  There  he  found  a 
chair  and,  lighting  a  cigarette,  drifted  into  the  thought 
less  reverie  that  was  his  usual  mood.  Yet  now  it  was  a 
reverie  made  sensuous  by  the  night  and  by  the  hot  smell 
of  damp  powder  puffs,  tucked  in  the  fronts  of  low  dresses 
and  distilling  a  thousand  rich  scents  to  float  out  through 
the  open  door.  The  music  itself,  blurred  by  a  loud 
trombone,  became  hot  and  shadowy,  a  languorous  over 
tone  to  the  scraping  of  many  shoes  and  slippers. 

Suddenly  the  square  of  yellow  light  that  fell  through 
the  door  was  obscured  by  a  dark  figure.  A  girl  had 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  13 

come  out  of  the  dressing-room  and  was  standing  on  the 
porch  not  more  than  ten  feet  away.  Jim  heard  a  low- 
breathed  "doggone"  and  then  she  turned  and  saw  him. 
It  was  Nancy  Lamar. 

Jim  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Howdy?" 

"Hello — "  she  paused,  hesitated  and  then  approached. 
"Oh,  it's— Jim  Powell." 

He  bowed  slightly,  tried  to  think  of  a  casual  remark. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  she  began  quickly,  "I  mean — do 
you  know  anything  about  gum  ?" 

"What?" 

"I've  got  gum  on  my  shoe.  Some  utter  ass  left  his 
or  her  gum  on  the  floor  and  of  course  I  stepped  in  it." 

Jim  blushed,  inappropriately. 

"Do  you  know  how  to  get  it  off?"  she  demanded 
petulantly.  "I've  tried  a  knife.  I've  tried  every  damn 
thing  in  the  dressing-room.  I've  tried  soap  and  water— 
and  even  perfume  and  I've  ruined  my  powder-puff  try 
ing  to  make  it  stick  to  that." 

Jim  considered  the  question  in  some  agitation. 

"Why — I  think  maybe  gasolene — — 

The  words  had  scarcely  left  his  lips  when  she  grasped 
his  hand  and  pulled  him  at  a  run  off  the  low  veranda, 
over  a  flower  bed  and  at  a  gallop  toward  a  group  of 
cars  parked  in  the  moonlight  by  the  first  hole  of  the 
golf  course. 

"Turn  on  the  gasolene,"  she  commanded  breathlessly, 

"What?" 

"For  the  gum  of  course.  I've  got  to  get  it  off.  I 
can't  dance  with  gum  on." 

Obediently  Jim  turned  to  the  cars  and  began  inspect 
ing  them  with  a  view  to  obtaining  the  desired  solvent. 
Had  she  demanded  a  cylinder  he  would  have  done  his 
best  to  wrench  one  out. 


I4  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Here,"  he  said  after  a  moment's  search.  "Here's 
one  that's  easy.  Got  a  handkerchief?" 

"It's  up-stairs  wet.    I  used  it  for  the  soap  and  water." 

Jim  laboriously  explored  his  pockets. 

"Don't  believe  I  got  one  either." 

"Doggone  it!  Well,  we  can  turn  it  on  and  let  it 
run  on  the  ground." 

He  turned  the  spout;  a  dripping  began. 

"More!" 

He  turned  it  on  fuller.  The  dripping  became  a  flow 
and  formed  an  oily  pool  that  glistened  brightly,  reflect 
ing  a  dozen  tremulous  moons  on  its  quivering  bosom. 

"Ah,"  she  sighed  contentedly,  "let  it  all  out.  The 
only  thing  to  do  is  to  wade  in  it." 

In  desperation  he  turned  on  the  tap  full  and  the  pool 
suddenly  widened  sending  tiny  rivers  and  trickles  in 
all  directions. 

"That's  fine.    That's  something  like." 

Raising  her  skirts  she  stepped  gracefully  in. 

"I  know  this'll  take  it  off,"  she  murmured. 

Jim  smiled. 

"There's  lots  more  cars." 

She  stepped  daintily  out  of  the  gasolene  and  began 
scraping  her  slippers,  side  and  bottom,  on  the  running- 
board  of  the  automobile.  The  Jelly-bean  contained  him 
self  no  longer.  He  bent  double  with  explosive  laugh 
ter  and  after  a  second  she  joined  in. 

"You're  here  with  Clark  Darrow,  aren't  you?"  she 
asked  as  they  walked  back  toward  the  veranda. 

"Yes." 

"You  know  where  he  is  now  ?" 

"Out  dancin',  I  reckin." 

"The  deuce.     He  promised  me  a  highball." 

"Well,"  said  Jim,  "I  guess  that'll  be  all  right.  I  got 
his  bottle  right  here  in  my  pocket." 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  15 

She  smiled  at  him  radiantly. 

"I  guess  maybe  you'll  need  ginger  ale  though/' 
he  added. 

"Not  me.    Just  the  bottle." 

"Sure  enough  ?" 

She  laughed  scornfully. 

"Try  me.  I  can  drink  anything  any  man  can.  Let's 
sit  down." 

She  perched  herself  on  the  side  of  a  table  and  he 
dropped  into  one  of  the  wicker  chairs  beside  her. 
Taking  out  the  cork  she  held  the  flask  to  her  lips  and 
took  a  long  drink.  He  watched  her  fascinated. 

"Like  it?" 

She  shook  her  head  breathlessly. 

"No,  but  I  like  the  way  it  makes  me  feel.  I  think 
most  people  are  that  way." 

Jim  agreed. 

"My  daddy  liked  it  too  well.    It  got  him." 

"American  men,"  said  Nancy  gravely,  "don't  know 
how  to  drink." 

"What  ? "    Jim  was  startled. 

"In  fact,"  she  went  on  carelessly,  "they  don't  know 
how  to  do  anything  very  well.  The  one  thing  I  regret 
in  my  life  is  that  I  wasn't  born  in  England." 

"In  England?" 

"Yes.     It's  the  one  regret  of  my  life  that  I  wasn't." 

"Do  you  like  it  over  there." 

"Yes.  Immensely.  I've  never  been  there  in  person, 
but  I've  met  a  lot  of  Englishmen  who  were  over  here  in 
the  army,  Oxford  and  Cambridge  men — you  know, 
that's  like  Sewanee  and  University  of  Georgia  are  here 
— and  of  course  I've  read  a  lot  of  English  novels." 

Jim  was  interested,  amazed. 

"D'  you  ever  hear  of  Lady  Diana  Manners?"  she 
asked  earnestly. 


16  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

No,  Jim  had  not. 

"Well,  she's  what  I'd  like  to  be.  Dark,  you  know, 
like  me,  and  wild  as  sin.  She's  the  girl  who  rode  her 
horse  up  the  steps  of  some  cathedral  or  church  or  some 
thing  and  all  the  novelists  made  their  heroines  do  it 
afterwards." 

Jim  nodded  politely.    He  was  out  of  his  depths. 

"Pass  the  bottle,"  suggested  Nancy.  "I'm  going  to 
take  another  little  one.  A  little  drink  wouldn't  hurt  a 
baby. 

"You  see,"  she  continued,  again  breathless  after  a 
draught.  "  People  over  there  have  style.  Nobody  has 
style  here.  I  mean  the  boys  here  aren't  really  worth 
dressing  up  for  or  doing  sensational  things  for.  Don't 
you  know  ?" 

"I  suppose  so — I  mean  I  suppose  not,"  murmured 
Jim. 

"And  I'd  like  to  do  'em  an'  all.  I'm  really  the  only 
girl  in  town  that  has  style." 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  and  yawned  pleasantly. 

"Pretty  evening." 

"Sure  is,"  agreed  Jim. 

"Like  to  have  boat,"  she  suggested  dreamily.  "Like 
to  sail  out  on  a  silver  lake,  say  the  Thames,  for  instance. 
Have  champagne  and  caviare  sandwiches  along.  Have 
about  eight  people.  And  one  of  the  men  would  jump 
overboard  to  amuse  the  party  and  get  drowned  like  a 
man  did  with  Lady  Diana  Manners  once." 

"Did  he  do  it  to  please  her  ?" 

"Didn't  mean  drown  himself  to  please  her.  He  just 
meant  to  jump  overboard  and  make  everybody  laugh." 

"I  reckin  they  just  died  laughin'  when  he  drowned." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  they  laughed  a  little,"  she  admitted. 
"I  imagine  she  did,  anyway.  She's  pretty  hard,  I 
guess — like  I  am." 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  17 

"You  hard?" 

"Like  nails."  She  yawned  again  and  added,  "Give* 
me  a  little  more  from  that  bottle." 

Jim  hesitated  but  she  held  out  her  hand  defiantly. 

"Don't  treat  me  like  a  girl,"  she  warned  him.  "I'm 
not  like  any  girl  you  ever  saw."  She  considered.  "Still, 
perhaps  you're  right.  You  got — you  got  old  head  on 
young  shoulders." 

She  jumped  to  her  feet  and  moved  toward  the  door. 
The  Jelly-bean  rose  also. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  politely,  "good-bye.  Thanks, 
Jelly-bean." 

Then  she  stepped  inside  and  left  him  wide-eyed  upon 
the  porch. 

in 

At  twelve  o'clock  a  procession  of  cloaks  issued  single 
file  from  the  women's  dressing-room  and,  each  one  pair 
ing  with  a  coated  beau  like  dancers  meeting  in  a  cotil 
lion  figure,  drifted  through  the  door  with  sleepy  happy 
laughter — through  the  door  into  the  dark  where  autos 
backed  and  snorted  and  parties  called  to  one  another 
and  gathered  around  the  water-cooler. 

Jim,  sitting  in  his  corner,  rose  to  look  for  Clark. 
They  had  met  at  eleven;  then  Clark  had  gone  in  to 
dance.  So,  seeking  him,  Jim  wandered  into  the  soft- 
drink  stand  that  had  once  been  a  bar.  The  room  was 
deserted  except  for  a  sleepy  negro  dozing  behind  the 
counter  and  two  boys  lazily  fingering  a  pair  of  dice  at 
one  of  the  tables.  Jim  was  about  to  leave  when  he  saw 
Clark  coming  in.  At  the  same  moment  Clark  looked  up. 

"Hi,  Jim ! "  he  commanded.  "  C'  mon  over  and  help  us 
with  this  bottle.  I  guess  there's  not  much  left,  but 
there's  one  all  around." 

Nancy,  the  man  from  Savannah,  Marylyn  Wade,  and 


i8  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Joe  Ewing  were  lolling  and  laughing  in  the  doorway. 
Nancy  caught  Jim's  eye  and  winked  at  him  humorously. 

They  drifted  over  to  a  table  and  arranging  themselves 
around  it  waited  for  the  waiter  to  bring  ginger  ale. 
Jim,  faintly  ill  at  ease,  turned  his  eyes  on  Nancy,  who 
had  drifted  into  a  nickel  crap  game  with  the  two  boys 
at  the  next  table. 

"Bring  them  over  here/7  suggested  Clark. 

Joe  looked  around. 

"We  don't  want  to  draw  a  crowd.  It's  against  club 
rules." 

"Nobody's  around,"  insisted  Clark,  "except  Mr.  Tay 
lor.  He's  walking  up  and  down  like  a  wild-man  trying 
to  find  out  who  let  all  the  gasolene  out  of  his  car." 

There  was  a  general  laugh. 

"I  bet  a  million  Nancy  got  something  on  her  shoe 
again.  You  can't  park  when  she's  around." 

"O  Nancy,  Mr.  Taylor's  looking  for  you!" 

Nancy's  cheeks  were  glowing  with  excitement  over 
the  game.  "I  haven't  seen  his  silly  little  flivver  in 
two  weeks." 

Jim  felt  a  sudden  silence.  He  turned  and  saw  an 
individual  of  uncertain  age  standing  in  the  doorway. 

Clark's  voice  punctuated  the  embarrassment. 

"Won't  you  join  us,  Mr.  Taylor?" 

"Thanks." 

Mr.  Taylor  spread  his  unwelcome  presence  over  a 
chair.  "Have  to,  I  guess.  I'm  waiting  till  they  dig 
me  up  some  gasolene.  Somebody  got  funny  with  my 
car." 

His  eyes  narrowed  and  he  looked  quickly  from  one 
to  the  other.  Jim  wondered  what  he  had  heard  from 
the  doorway — tried  to  remember  what  had  been  said. 

"I'm  right  to-night,"  Nancy  sang  out,  "and  my  four 
bits  is  in  the  ring." 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  19 

"  Faded !"  snapped  Taylor  suddenly. 

"Why,  Mr.  Taylor,  I  didn't  know  you  shot  craps!" 
Nancy  was  overjoyed  to  find  that  he  had  seated  himself 
and  instantly  covered  her  bet.  They  had  openly  dis 
liked  each  other  since  the  night  she  had  definitely  dis 
couraged  a  series  of  rather  pointed  advances. 

"All  right,  babies,  do  it  for  your  mamma.  Just  one 
little  seven."  Nancy  was  cooing  to  the  dice.  She 
rattled  them  with  a  brave  underhand  flourish,  and 
rolled  them  out  on  the  table. 

"Ah-h!  I  suspected  it.  And  now  again  with  the 
dollar  up." 

Five  passes  to  her  credit  found  Taylor  a  bad 
loser.  She  was  making  it  personal,  and  after  each  suc 
cess  Jim  watched  triumph  flutter  across  her  face.  She 
was  doubling  with  each  throw — such  luck  could  scarcely 
last. 

"Better  go  easy,"  he  cautioned  her  timidly. 

"Ah,  but  watch  this  one,"  she  whispered.  It  was 
eight  on  the  dice  and  she  called  her  number. 

"Little  Ada,  this  time  we're  going  South." 

Ada  from  Decatur  rolled  over  the  table.  Nancy 
was  flushed  and  half-hysterical,  but  her  luck  was  hold 
ing.  She  drove  the  pot  up  and  up,  refusing  to  drag. 
Taylor  was  drumming  with  his  fingers  on  the  table,  but 
he  was  in  to  stay. 

Then  Nancy  tried  for  a  ten  and  lost  the  dice.  Tay 
lor  seized  them  avidly.  He  shot  in  silence,  and  in  the 
hush  of  excitement  the  clatter  of  one  pass  after  another 
on  the  table  was  the  only  sound. 

Now  Nancy  had  the  dice  again,  but  her  luck  had 
broken.  An  hour  passed.  Back  and  forth  it  went. 
Taylor  had  been  at  it  again — and  again  and  again. 
They  were  even  at  last — Nancy  lost  her  ultimate  five 
dollars. 


20  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Will  you  take  my  check,"  she  said  quickly,  "for 
fifty,  and  we'll  shoot  it  all?"  Her  voice  was  a  little 
unsteady  and  her  hand  shook  as  she  reached  to  the 
money. 

Clark  exchanged  an  uncertain  but  alarmed  glance 
with  Joe  Ewing.  Taylor  shot  again.  He  had  Nancy's 
check. 

"How  'bout  another?"  she  said  wildly.  "Jes'  any 
bank'll  do — money  everywhere  as  a  matter  of  fact." 

Jim  understood — the  "good  old  corn"  he  had  given 
her — the  "good  old  corn"  she  had  taken  since.  He 
wished  he  dared  interfere — &  girl  of  that  age  and  posi 
tion  would  hardly  have  two  bank  accounts.  When  the 
clock  struck  two  he  contained  himself  no  longer. 

"May  I — can't  you  let  me  roll  'em  for  you  ?"  he  sug 
gested,  his  low,  lazy  voice  a  little  strained. 

Suddenly  sleepy  and  listless,  Nancy  flung  the  dice 
down  before  him. 

"All  right — old  boy !  As  Lady  Diana  Manners  says, 
'Shoot  'em,  Jelly-bean' — My  luck's  gone." 

"Mr.  Taylor,"  said  Jim,  carelessly,  "we'll  shoot  for 
one  of  those  there  checks  against  the  cash." 

Half  an  hour  later  Nancy  swayed  forward  and  clapped 
him  on  the  back. 

"  Stole  my  luck,  you  did."  She  was  nodding  her  head 
sagely. 

Jim  swept  up  the  last  check  and  putting  it  with  the 
others  tore  them  into  confetti  and  scattered  them  on 
the  floor.  Someone  started  singing,  and  Nancy  kicking 
her  chair  backward  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  announced.  "Ladies 
— that's  you  Marylyn.  I  want  to  tell  the  world  that 
Mr.  Jim  Powell,  who  is  a  well-known  Jelly-bean  of  this 
city,  is  an  exception  to  a  great  rule — 'lucky  in  dice — 
unlucky  in  love.'  He's  lucky  in  dice,  and  as  matter 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  21 

fact  I — I  love  him.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  Nancy  La- 
mar,  famous  dark-haired  beauty  often  featured  in  the 
Herald  as  one  th'  most  popular  members  of  younger  set 
as  other  girls  are  often  featured  in  this  particular  case. 
Wish  to  announce — wish  to  announce,  anyway,  Gentle 
men—  -"  She  tipped  suddenly.  Clark  caught  her  and 
restored  her  balance. 

"My  error,"  she  laughed,  "she  stoops  to — stoops  to — 

anyways We'll  drink  to  Jelly-bean  .  .  .  Mr.  Jim 

Powell,  King  of  the  Jelly-beans." 

And  a  few  minutes  later  as  Jim  waited  hat  in  hand 
for  Clark  in  the  darkness  of  that  same  corner  of  the 
porch  where  she  had  come  searching  for  gasolene,  she 
appeared  suddenly  beside  him. 

" Jelly-bean,"  she  said,  "are  you  here,  Jelly-bean? 
I  think — '  and  her  slight  unsteadiness  seemed  part 
of  an  enchanted  dream — "I  think  you  deserve  one  of  my 
sweetest  kisses  for  that,  Jelly-bean." 

For  an  instant  her  arms  were  around  his  neck — her 
lips  were  pressed  to  his. 

"I'm  a  wild  part  of  the  world,  Jelly-bean,  but  you  did 
me  a  good  turn." 

Then  she  was  gone,  down  the  porch,  over  the  cricket- 
loud  lawn.  Jim  saw  Merritt  come  out  the  front  door 
and  say  something  to  her  angrily — saw  her  laugh  and, 
turning  away,  walk  with  averted  eyes  to  his  car. 
Marylyn  and  Joe  followed,  singing  a  drowsy  song  about 
a  Jazz  baby. 

Clark  came  out  and  joined  Jim  on  the  steps.  "All 
pretty  lit,  I  guess,"  he  yawned.  "Merritt's  in  a  mean 
mood.  He's  certainly  off  Nancy." 

Over  east  along  the  golf  course  a  faint  rug  of  gray 
spread  itself  across  the  feet  of  the  night.  The  party  in 
the  car  began  to  chant  a  chorus  as  the  engine  warmed  up. 

"Good-night  everybody,"  called  Clark. 


22  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Good-night,  Clark." 

"Good-night." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  a  soft,  happy  voice 
added, 

"  Good-night,  Jelly-bean." 

The  car  drove  off  to  a  burst  of  singing.  A  rooster  on 
a  farm  across  the  way  took  up  a  solitary  mournful  crow, 
and  behind  them  a  last  negro  waiter  turned  out  the 
porch  light.  Jim  and  Clark  strolled  over  toward  the 
Ford,  their  shoes  crunching  raucously  on  the  gravel 
drive. 

"Oh  boy!"  sighed  Clark  softly,  "how  you  can  set 
those  dice!" 

It  was  still  too  dark  for  him  to  see  the  flush  on  Jim's 
thin  cheeks — or  to  know  that  it  was  a  flush  of  unfamiliar 
shame. 


IV 

Over  Tilly's  garage  a  bleak  room  echoed  all  day  to 
the  rumble  and  snorting  down-stairs  and  the  singing  of 
the  negro  washers  as  they  turned  the  hose  on  the  cars 
outside.  It  was  a  cheerless  square  of  a  room,  punctuated 
with  a  bed  and  a  battered  table  on  which  lay  half  a 
dozen  books — Joe  Miller's  "Slow  Train  thru  Arkansas," 
"Lucille,"  in  an  old  edition  very  much  annotated  in  an 
old-fashioned  hand;  "The  Eyes  of  the  World,"  by  Harold 
Bell  Wright,  and  an  ancient  prayer-book  of  the  Church 
of  England  with  the  name  Alice  Powell  and  the  date  1831 
written  on  the  fly-leaf. 

The  East,  gray  when  the  Jelly-bean  entered  the  garage, 
became  a  rich  and  vivid  blue  as  he  turned  on  his  soli 
tary  electric  light.  He  snapped  it  out  again,  and  going 
to  the  window  rested  his  elbows  on  the  sill  and  stared 
into  the  deepening  morning.  With  the  awakening  of  his 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  23 

emotions,  his  first  perception  was  a  sense  of  futility,  a  dull 
ache  at  the  utter  grayness  of  his  life.  A  wall  had  sprung 
up  suddenly  around  him  hedging  him  in,  a  wall  as  definite 
and  tangible  as  the  white  wall  of  his  bare  room.  And 
with  his  perception  of  this  wall  all  that  had  been  the 
romance  of  his  existence,  the  casualness,  the  light- 
hearted  improvidence,  the  miraculous  open-handedness 
of  life  faded  out.  The  Jelly-bean  strolling  up  Jackson 
Street  humming  a  lazy  song,  known  at  every  shop  and 
street  stand,  cropful  of  easy  greeting  and  local  wit, 
sad  sometimes  for  only  the  sake  of  sadness  and  the 
flight  of  time — that  Jelly-bean  was  suddenly  vanished. 
The  very  name  was  a  reproach,  a  triviality.  With  a 
flood  of  insight  he  knew  that  Merritt  must  despise  him, 
that  even  Nancy's  kiss  in  the  dawn  would  have  awak 
ened  not  jealousy  but  only  a  contempt  for  Nancy's  so 
lowering  herself.  And  on  his  part  the  Jelly-bean  had 
used  for  her  a  dingy  subterfuge  learned  from  the  garage. 
He  had  been  her  moral  laundry;  the  stains  were  his. 

As  the  gray  became  blue,  brightened  and  rilled  the 
room,  he  crossed  to  his  bed  and  threw  himself  down  on 
it,  gripping  the  edges  fiercely. 

"I  love  her,"  he  cried  aloud,  "God!" 

As  he  said  this  something  gave  way  within  him  like 
a  lump  melting  in  his  throat.  The  air  cleared  and  be 
came  radiant  with  dawn,  and  turning  over  on  his  face 
he  began  to  sob  dully  into  the  pillow. 

In  the  sunshine  of  three  o'clock  Clark  Darrow  chug 
ging  painfully  along  Jackson  Street  was  hailed  by  the 
Jelly-bean,  who  stood  on  the  curb  with  his  fingers  in 
his  vest  pockets. 

"Hi!"  called  Clark,  bringing  his  Ford  to  an  aston 
ishing  stop  alongside.  "Just  get  up  ?" 

The  Jelly-bean  shook  his  head. 


24  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Never  did  go  to  bed.  Felt  sorta  restless,  so  I  took  a 
long  walk  this  morning  out  in  the  country.  Just  got 
into  town  this  minute." 

"  Should  think  you  would  feel  restless.  I  been  feel 
ing  thataway  all  day " 

"I'm  thinkin'  of  leavin'  town,"  continued  the  Jelly 
bean,  absorbed  by  his  own  thoughts.  "Been  thinkin' 
of  goin'  up  on  the  farm,  and  takin'  a  little  that  work  off 
Uncle  Dun.  Reckin  I  been  bummin'  too  long." 

Clark  was  silent  and  the  Jelly-bean  continued: 

"I  reckin  maybe  after  Aunt  Mamie  dies  I  could  sink 
that  money  of  mine  in  the  farm  and  make  somethin' 
out  of  it.  All  my  people  originally  came  from  that 
part  up  there.  Had  a  big  place." 

Clark  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"That's  funny,"  he  said.  "This— this  sort  of  affected 
me  the  same  way." 

The  Jelly-bean  hesitated. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  began  slowly,  "somethin'  about — 
about  that  girl  last  night  talkin'  about  a  lady  named 
Diana  Manners — an  English  lady,  sorta  got  me  think- 
in'  ! "  He  drew  himself  up  and  looked  oddly  at  Clark, 
"I  had  a  family  once,"  he  said  defiantly. 

Clark  nodded. 

"I  know." 

"And  I'm  the  last  of  'em,"  continued  the  Jelly-bean, 
his  voice  rising  slightly,  "and  I  ain't  worth  shucks. 
Name  they  call  me  by  means  jelly — weak  and  wobbly 
like.  People  who  weren't  nothin'  when  my  folks  was 
a  lot  turn  up  their  noses  when  they  pass  me  on  the 
street." 

Again  Clark  was  silent. 

"So  I'm  through.  I'm  goin'  to-day.  And  when  I 
come  back  to  this  town  it's  going  to  be  like  a  gentle- 


THE  JELLY-BEAN  25 

Clark  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  damp 
brow. 

"Reckon  you're  not  the  only  one  it  shook  up,"  he 
admitted  gloomily.  "All  this  thing  of  girls  going  round 
like  they  do  is  going  to  stop  right  quick.  Too  bad, 
too,  but  everybody'll  have  to  see  it  thataway." 

"Do  you  mean,"  demanded  Jim  in  surprise,  "that 
all  that's  leaked  out?" 

"Leaked  out?  How  on  earth  could  they  keep  it 
secret.  It'll  be  announced  in  the  papers  to-night. 
Doctor  Lamar's  got  to  save  his  name  somehow." 

Jim  put  his  hands  on  the  sides  of  the  car  and  tightened 
his  long  fingers  on  the  metal. 

"Do  you  mean  Taylor  investigated  those  checks?" 

It  was  Clark's  turn  to  be  surprised. 

"Haven't  you  heard  what  happened?" 

Jim's  startled  eyes  were  answer  enough. 

"Why,"  announced  Clark  dramatically,  "those  four 
got  another  bottle  of  corn,  got  tight  and  decided  to  shock 
the  town — so  Nancy  and  that  fella  Merritt  were  married 
in  Rockville  at  seven  o'clock  this  morning." 

A  tiny  indentation  appeared  in  the  metal  under  the 
Jelly-bean's  fingers. 

"Married?" 

"Sure  enough.  Nancy  sobered  up  and  rushed  back 
into  town,  crying  and  frightened  to  death — claimed 
it'd  all  been  a  mistake.  First  Doctor  Lamar  went 
wild  and  was  going  to  kill  Merritt,  but  finally  they  got 
it  patched  up  some  way,  and  Nancy  and  Merritt  went  to 
Savannah  on  the  two-thirty  train." 

Jim  closed  his  eyes  and  with  an  effort  overcame  a 
sudden  sickness. 

"It's  too  bad,"  said  Clark  philosophically.  "I  don't 
mean  the  wedding — reckon  that's  all  right,  though  I 
don't  guess  Nancy  cared  a  darn  about  him.  But  it's 


26  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

a  crime  for  a  nice  girl  like  that  to  hurt  her  family  that 
way." 

The  Jelly-bean  let  go  the  car  and  turned  away.  Again 
something  was  going  on  inside  him,  some  inexplicable 
but  almost  chemical  change. 

" Where  you  going?'7  asked  Clark. 

The  Jelly-bean  turned  and  looked  dully  back  over 
his  shoulder. 

"  Got  to  go,"  he  muttered.  "Been  up  too  long;  feelin' 
right  sick." 

"Oh." 

The  street  was  hot  at  three  and  hotter  still  at  four, 
the  April  dust  seeming  to  enmesh  the  sun  and  give  it 
forth  again  as  a  world-old  joke  forever  played  on  an 
eternity  of  afternoons.  But  at  half  past  four  a  first 
layer  of  quiet  fell  and  the  shades  lengthened  under  the 
awnings  and  heavy  foliaged  trees.  In  this  heat  nothing 
mattered.  All  life  was  weather,  a  waiting  through  the 
hot  where  events  had  no  significance  for  the  cool  that 
was  soft  and  caressing  like  a  woman's  hand  on  a  tired 
forehead.  Down  in  Georgia  there  is  a  feeling — perhaps 
inarticulate — that  this  is  the  greatest  wisdom  of  the 
South — so  after  a  while  the  Jelly-bean  turned  into  a  pool- 
hall  on  Jackson  Street  where  he  was  sure  to  find  a  con 
genial  crowd  who  would  make  all  the  old  jokes — the 
ones  he  knew. 


THE   CAMEL'S  BACK 

THE  glazed  eye  of  the  tired  reader  resting  for  a  second 
on  the  above  title  will  presume  it  to  be  merely  meta 
phorical.  Stories  about  the  cup  and  the  lip  and  the 
bad  penny  and  the  new  broom  rarely  have  anything  to 
do  with  cups  or  lips  or  pennies  or  brooms.  This  story 
is  the  exception.  It  has  to  do  with  a  material,  visible  and 
large-as-life  camel's  back. 

Starting  from  the  neck  we  shall  work  toward  the  tail. 
I  want  you  to  meet  Mr.  Perry  Parkhurst,  twenty-eight, 
lawyer,  native  of  Toledo.  Perry  has  nice  teeth,  a  Har 
vard  diploma,  parts  his  hair  in  the  middle.  You  have 
met  him  before — in  Cleveland,  Portland,  St.  Paul,  Indi 
anapolis,  Kansas  City,  and  so  forth.  Baker  Brothers, 
New  York,  pause  on  their  semi-annual  trip  through  the 
West  to  clothe  him;  Montmorency  &  Co.  dispatch  a 
young  man  post-haste  every  three  months  to  see  that  he 
has  the  correct  number  of  little  punctures  on  his  shoes. 
He  has  a  domestic  roadster  now,  will  have  a  French 
roadster  if  he  lives  long  enough,  and  doubtless  a  Chinese 
tank  if  it  comes  into  fashion.  He  looks  like  the  ad 
vertisement  of  the  young  man  rubbing  his  sunset- 
colored  chest  with  liniment  and  goes  East  every  other 
year  to  his  class  reunion. 

I  want  you  to  meet  his  Love.  Her  name  is  Betty  Me- 
dill,  and  she  would  take  well  in  the  movies.  Her  father 
gives  her  three  hundred  a  month  to  dress  on,  and  she  has 
tawny  eyes  and  hair  and  feather  fans  of  five  colors.  I 
shall  also  introduce  her  father,  Cyrus  Medill.  Though 
he  is  to  all  appearances  flesh  and  blood,  he  is,  strange  to 
say,  commonly  known  in  Toledo  as  the  Aluminum  Man. 

27 


28  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

But  when  he  sits  in  his  club  window  with  two  or  three 
Iron  Men,  and  the  White  Pine  Man,  and  the  Brass  Man, 
they  look  very  much  as  you  and  I  do,  only  more  so,  if 
you  know  what  I  mean. 

Now  during  the  Christmas  holidays  of  1919  there  took 
place  in  Toledo,  counting  only  the  people  with  the  ital 
icized  the,  forty-one  dinner  parties,  sixteen  dances,  six 
luncheons,  male  and  female,  twelve  teas,  four  stag  din 
ners,  two  weddings,  and  thirteen  bridge  parties.  It 
was  the  cumulative  effect  of  all  this  that  moved  Perry 
Parkhurst  on  the  twenty-ninth  day  of  December  to  a 
decision. 

This  Medill  girl  would  marry  him  and  she  wouldn't 
marry  him.  She  was  having  such  a  good  time  that  she 
hated  to  take  such  a  definite  step.  Meanwhile,  their 
secret  engagement  had  got  so  long  that  it  seemed  as  if 
any  day  it  might  break  off  of  its  own  weight.  A  little 
man  named  Warburton,  who  knew  it  all,  persuaded 
Perry  to  superman  her,  to  get  a  marriage  license  and  go 
up  to  the  Medill  house  and  tell  her  she'd  have  to  marry 
him  at  once  or  call  it  off  forever.  So  he  presented  him 
self,  his  heart,  his  license,  and  his  ultimatum,  and  within 
five  minutes  they  were  in  the  midst  of  a  violent  quarrel, 
a  burst  of  sporadic  open  fighting  such  as  occurs  near  the 
end  of  all  long  wars  and  engagements.  It  brought  about 
one  of  those  ghastly  lapses  in  which  two  people  who  are 
in  love  pull  up  sharp,  look  at  each  other  coolly  and  think 
it's  all  been  a  mistake.  Afterward  they  usually  kiss 
wholesomely  and  assure  the  other  person  it  was  all  their 
fault.  Say  it  all  was  my  fault !  Say  it  was !  I  want  to 
hear  you  say  it ! 

But  while  reconciliation  was  trembling  in  the  air, 
while  each  was,  in  a  measure,  stalling  it  off,  so  that  they 
might  the  more  voluptuously  and  sentimentally  enjoy 
it  when  it  came,  they  were  permanently  interrupted  by 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  29 

a  twenty-minute  phone  call  for  Betty  from  a  garrulous 
aunt.  At  the  end  of  eighteen  minutes  Perry  Parkhurst, 
urged  on  by  pride  and  suspicion  and  injured  dignity, 
put  on  his  long  fur  coat,  picked  up  his  light  brown  soft 
hat,  and  stalked  out  the  door. 

"It's  all  over,"  he  muttered  brokenly  as  he  tried  to 
jam  his  car  into  first.  "It's  all  over — if  I  have  to  choke 
you  for  an  hour,  damn  you!"  This  last  to  the  car, 
which  had  been  standing  some  time  and  was  quite  cold. 

He  drove  downtown — that  is,  he  got  into  a  snow  rut 
that  led  him  downtown.  He  sat  slouched  down  very 
low  in  his  seat,  much  too  dispirited  to  care  where  he 
went. 

In  front  of  the  Clarendon  Hotel  he  was  hailed  from 
the  sidewalk  by  a  bad  man  named  Baily,  who  had  big 
teeth  and  lived  at  the  hotel  and  had  never  been  in 
love. 

"Perry,"  said  the  bad  man  softly  when  the  roadster 
drew  up  beside  him  at  the  curb,  "I've  got  six  quarts  of 
the  doggonedest  still  champagne  you  ever  tasted.  A 
third  of  it's  yours,  Perry,  if  you'll  come  up-stairs  and  help 
Martin  Macy  and  me  drink  it." 

"Baily,"  said  Perry  tensely,  "I'll  drink  your  cham 
pagne.  I'll  drink  every  drop  of  it.  I  don't  care  if  it 
kills  me." 

"  Shut  up,  you  nut ! "  said  the  bad  man  gently.  "  They 
don't  put  wood  alcohol  in  champagne.  This  is  the  stuff 
that  proves  the  world  is  more  than  six  thousand  years 
old.  It's  so  ancient  that  the  cork  is  petrified.  You 
have  to  pull  it  with  a  stone  drill." 

"Take  me  up-stairs,"  said  Perry  moodily.  "If  that 
cork  sees  my  heart  it'll  fall  out  from  pure  mortifica 
tion." 

The  room  up-stairs  was  full  of  those  innocent  hotel 
pictures  of  little  girls  eating  apples  and  sitting  in  swings 


3o  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

and  talking  to  dogs.  The  other  decorations  were  neck 
ties  and  a  pink  man  reading  a  pink  paper  devoted  to 
ladies  in  pink  tights. 

"When  you  have  to  go  into  the  highways  and  by 
ways "  said  the  pink  man,  looking  reproachfully  at 

Baily  and  Perry. 

"  Hello,  Martin  Macy,"  said  Perry  shortly,  "where's 
this  stone-age  champagne?" 

" What's  the  rush?  This  isn't  an  operation,  under 
stand.  This  is  a  party." 

Perry  sat  down  dully  and  looked  disapprovingly  at 
all  the  neckties. 

Baily  leisurely  opened  the  door  of  a  wardrobe  and 
brought  out  six  handsome  bottles. 

"Take  off  that  darn  fur  coat!"  said  Martin  Macy  to 
Perry.  "Or  maybe  you'd  like  to  have  us  open  all  the 
windows." 

"Give  me  champagne,"  said  Perry. 

"Going  to  the  Townsends'  circus  ball  to-night?" 

"Am  not!" 

"'Vited?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"Why  not  go?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sick  of  parties,"  exclaimed  Perry.  "I'm 
sick  of  'em.  I've  been  to  so  many  that  I'm  sick  of 
'em." 

"Maybe  you're  going  to  the  Howard  Tates'  party  ?" 

"No,  I  tell  you;  I'm  sick  of  'em." 

"Well,"  said  Macy  consolingly,  "the  Tates'  is  just  for 
college  kids  anyways." 

"I  tell  you " 

"I  thought  you'd  be  going  to  one  of  'em  anyways.  I 
see  by  the  papers  you  haven't  missed  a  one  this  Christ 
mas." 

"Hm,"  grunted  Perry  morosely. 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  31 

He  would  never  go  to  any  more  parties.  Classical 
phrases  played  in  his  mind — that  side  of  his  life  was 
closed,  closed.  Now  when  a  man  says  " closed,  closed" 
like  that,  you  can  be  pretty  sure  that  some  woman  has 
double-closed  him,  so  to  speak.  Perry  was  also  think 
ing  that  other  classical  thought,  about  how  cowardly 
suicide  is.  A  noble  thought  that  one — warm  and  in 
spiring.  Think  of  all  the  fine  men  we  should  lose  if 
suicide  were  not  so  cowardly ! 

An  hour  later  was  six  o'clock,  and  Perry  had  lost  all 
resemblance  to  the  young  man  in  the  liniment  adver 
tisement.  He  looked  like  a  rough  draft  for  a  riotous 
cartoon.  They  were  singing — an  impromptu  song  of 
Baily's  improvisation: 

"One  Lump  Perry,  tJte  parlor  snake, 

Famous  through  the  city  for  the  way  he  drinks  his  tea  ; 
Plays  with  it,  toys  with  it, 
Makes  no  noise  with  it, 

Balanced  on  a  napkin  on  his  well-trained  knee " 

"Trouble  is,"  said  Perry,  who  had  just  banged  his 
hair  with  Baily's  comb  and  was  tying  an  orange  tie 
round  it  to  get  the  effect  of  Julius  Caesar,  "that  you 
fellas  can't  sing  worth  a  damn.  Soon's  I  leave  th'  air 
and  start  singin'  tenor  you  start  singin'  tenor  too." 

"'M  a  natural  tenor,"  said  Macy  gravely.  "Voice 
lacks  cultivation,  tha's  all.  Gotta  natural  voice,  m'aunt 
used  say.  Naturally  good  singer." 

"Singers,  singers,  all  good  singers,"  remarked  Baily, 
who  was  at  the  telephone.  "No,  not  the  cabaret;  I 
want  night  egg.  I  mean  some  dog-gone  clerk  'at's  got 
food — food !  I  want 

"Julius  Caesar,"  announced  Perry,  turning  round  from 
the  mirror.  "Man  of  iron  will  and  stern  'termination." 

"Shut   up!"   yelled   Baily.     "Say,    iss   Mr.    Baily. 


32  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Sen'  up  enormous  supper.  Use  y  Wn  judgment.  Right 
away." 

He  connected  the  receiver  and  the  hook  with  some 
difficulty,  and  then  with  his  lips  closed  and  an  expres 
sion  of  solemn  intensity  in  his  eyes  went  to  the  lower 
drawer  of  his  dresser  and  pulled  it  open. 

"Lookit!"  he  commanded.  In  his  hands  he  held  a 
truncated  garment  of  pink  gingham. 

"Pants,"  he  exclaimed  gravely.     "Lookit !" 

This  was  a  pink  blouse,  a  red  tie,  and  a  Buster  Brown 
collar. 

"Lookit!"  he  repeated.  "Costume  for  the  Town- 
sends'  circus  ball.  I'm  KT  boy  carries  water  for  the 
elephants." 

Perry  was  impressed  in  spite  of  himself. 

"I'm  going  to  be  Julius  Caesar,"  he  announced  after 
a  moment  of  concentration. 

"Thought  you  weren't  going!"  said  Macy. 

"Me  ?  Sure,  I'm  goin'.  Never  miss  a  party.  Good 
for  the  nerves — like  celery." 

"Caesar!"  scoffed  Baily.  "Can't  be  Caesar!  He  is 
not  about  a  circus.  Caesar's  Shakespeare.  Go  as  a 
clown." 

Perry  shook  his  head. 

"Nope;  Caesar." 

"Caesar?" 

"Sure.     Chariot/' 

Light  dawned  on  Baily. 

"That's  right.     Good  idea." 

Perry  looked  round  the  room  searchingly. 

"You  lend  me  a  bathrobe  and  this  tie,"  he  said  finally. 

Baily  considered. 

"No  good." 

"Sure,  tha's  all  I  need.  Caesar  was  a  savage.  They 
can't  kick  if  I  come  as  Caesar,  if  he  was  a  savage." 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  33 

"No,"  said  Baily,  shaking  his  head  slowly.  "Get  a 
costume  over  at  a  costumer's.  Over  at  Nolak's." 

"Closed  up." 

"Find  out." 

After  a  puzzling  five  minutes  at  the  phone  a  small, 
weary  voice  managed  to  convince  Perry  that  it  was  Mr. 
Nolak  speaking,  and  that  they  would  remain  open  until 
eight  because  of  the  Townsends'  ball.  Thus  assured, 
Perry  ate  a  great  amount  of  filet  mignon  and  drank  his 
third  of  the  last  bottle  of  champagne.  At  eight-fifteen 
the  man  in  the  tall  hat  who  stands  in  front  of  the  Clar 
endon  found  him  trying  to  start  his  roadster. 

"Froze  up,"  said  Perry  wisely.  "The  cold  froze  it. 
The  cold  air." 

"Froze,  eh?" 

"Yes.     Cold  air  froze  it." 

"Can't  start  it?" 

"Nope.  Let  it  stand  here  till  summer.  One  those 
hot  ole  August  days'll  thaw  it  out  awright." 

"Coin' let  it  stand?" 

"Sure.  Let  'er  stand.  Take  a  hot  thief  to  steal  it. 
Gemme  taxi." 

The  man  in  the  tall  hat  summoned  a  taxi. 

"Where  to,  mister?" 

"Go  to  Nolak's— costume  fella." 

II 

Mrs.  Nolak  was  short  and  ineffectual  looking,  and  on 
the  cessation  of  the  world  war  had  belonged  for  a  while 
to  one  of  the  new  nationalities.  Owing  to  unsettled 
European  conditions  she  had  never  since  been  quite 
sure  what  she  was.  The  shop  in  which  she  and  her 
husband  performed  their  daily  stint  was  dim  and  ghostly, 
and  peopled  with  suits  of  armor  and  Chinese  mandarins, 


34  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

and  enormous  papier-mache  birds  suspended  from  the 
ceiling.  In  a  vague  background  many  rows  of  masks 
glared  eyelessly  at  the  visitor,  and  there  were  glass 
cases  full  of  crowns  and  scepters,  and  jewels  and  enor 
mous  stomachers,  and  paints,  and  crape  hair,  and  wigs  of 
all  colors. 

When  Perry  ambled  into  the  shop  Mrs.  Nolak  was 
folding  up  the  last  troubles  of  a  strenuous  day,  so  she 
thought,  in  a  drawer  full  of  pink  silk  stockings. 

"Something  for  you?"  she  queried  pessimistically. 

"Want  costume  of  Julius  Hur,  the  charioteer." 

Mrs.  Nolak  was  sorry,  but  every  stitch  of  charioteer 
had  been  rented  long  ago.  Was  it  for  the  Townsends' 
circus  ball  ? 

It  was. 

" Sorry,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't  think  there's  anything 
left  that's  really  circus." 

This  was  an  obstacle. 

"Hm,"  said  Perry.  An  idea  struck  him  suddenly. 
"If  you've  got  a  piece  of  canvas  I  could  go's  a  tent." 

"Sorry,  but  we  haven't  anything  like  that.  A  hard 
ware  store  is  where  you'd  have  to  go  to.  We  have  some 
very  nice  Confederate  soldiers." 

"No.    No  soldiers." 

"And  I  have  a  very  handsome  king." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Several  of  the  gentlemen,"  she  continued  hopefully, 
"are  wearing  stovepipe  hats  and  swallow-tail  coats  and 
going  as  ringmasters — but  we're  all  out  of  tall  hats.  I 
can  let  you  have  some  crape  hair  for  a  mustache." 

"Want  somep'n  'stinctive." 

"Something — let's  see.  Well,  we  have  a  lion's  head, 
and  a  goose,  and  a  camel 

"Camel?"  The  idea  seized  Perry's  imagination, 
gripped  it  fiercely. 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  35 

"Yes,  but  it  needs  two  people." 

"Camel.    That's  the  idea.    Lemme  see  it." 

The  camel  was  produced  from  his  resting  place  on  a 
top  shelf.  At  first  glance  he  appeared  to  consist  en 
tirely  of  a  very  gaunt,  cadaverous  head  and  a  sizable 
hump,  but  on  being  spread  out  he  was  found  to  possess 
a  dark  brown,  unwholesome-looking  body  made  of  thick, 
cottony  cloth. 

"You  see  it  takes  two  people,"  explained  Mrs.  Nolak, 
holding  the  camel  in  frank  admiration.  "If  you  have 
a  friend  he  could  be  part  of  it.  You  see  there's  sorta 
pants  for  two  people.  One  pair  is  for  the  fella  in  front, 
and  the  other  pair  for  the  fella  in  back.  The  fella  in 
front  does  the  lookin'  out  through  these  here  eyes,  an' 
the  fella  in  back  he's  just  gotta  stoop  over  an'  folia  the 
front  fella  round." 

"Put  it  on,"  commanded  Perry. 

Obediently  Mrs.  Nolak  put  her  tabby-cat  face  inside 
the  camel's  head  and  turned  it  from  side  to  side  fero 
ciously. 

Perry  was  fascinated. 

"What  noise  does  a  camel  make  ?" 

"What?"  asked  Mrs.  Nolak  as  her  face  emerged, 
somewhat  smudgy.  "Oh,  what  noise?  Why,  he  sorta 
brays." 

"Lemme  see  it  in  a  mirror." 

Before  a  wide  mirror  Perry  tried  on  the  head  and 
turned  from  side  to  side  appraisingly.  In  the  dim  light 
the  effect  was  distinctly  pleasing.  The  camel's  face 
was  a  study  in  pessimism,  decorated  with  numerous 
abrasions,  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  his  coat  was  in 
that  state  of  general  negligence  peculiar  to  camels — in 
fact,  he  needed  to  be  cleaned  and  pressed — but  distinc 
tive  he  certainly  was.  He  was  majestic.  He  would 
have  attracted  attention  in  any  gathering,  if  only  by  his 


36  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

melancholy  cast  of  feature  and  the  look  of  hunger  lurking 
round  his  shadowy  eyes. 

"You  see  you  have  to  have  two  people,"  said  Mrs. 
Nolak  again. 

Perry  tentatively  gathered  up  the  body  and  legs  and 
wrapped  them  about  him,  tying  the  hind  legs  as  a  girdle 
round  his  waist.  The  effect  on  the  whole  was  bad.  It 
was  even  irreverent — like  one  of  those  mediaeval  pictures 
of  a  monk  changed  into  a  beast  by  the  ministrations  of 
Satan.  At  the  very  best  the  ensemble  resembled  a 
humpbacked  cow  sitting  on  her  haunches  among  blankets. 

"Don't  look  like  anything  at  all,"  objected  Perry 
gloomily. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Nolak;  "you  see  you  got  to  have 
two  people." 

A  solution  flashed  upon  Perry. 

"You  got  a  date  to-night?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  possibly " 

"Oh,  come  on,"  said  Perry  encouragingly.  "Sure 
you  can !  Here !  Be  good  sport,  and  climb  into  these 
hind  legs." 

With  difficulty  he  located  them,  and  extended  their 
yawning  depths  ingratiatingly.  But  Mrs.  Nolak  seemed 
loath.  She  backed  perversely  away. 

"Oh,  no " 

"Cm  on !  You  can  be  the  front  if  you  want  to.  Or 
we'll  flip  a  coin." 

"Oh,  no " 

"Make  it  worth  your  while." 

Mrs.  Nolak  set  her  lips  firmly  together. 

"Now  you  just  stop!"  she  said  with  no  coyness  im 
plied.  "None  of  the  gentlemen  ever  acted  up  this 
way  before.  My  husband " 

"You  got  a  husband?"  demanded  Perry.  "Where 
is  he?" 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  37 

"He's  home." 

"Wha's  telephone  number?" 

After  considerable  parley  he  obtained  the  telephone 
number  pertaining  to  the  Nolak  penates  and  got  into 
communication  with  that  small,  weary  voice  he  had 
heard  once  before  that  day.  But  Mr.  Nolak,  though 
taken  off  his  guard  and  somewhat  confused  by  Perry's 
brilliant  flow  of  logic,  stuck  staunchly  to  his  point.  He 
refused  firmly,  but  with  dignity,  to  help  out  Mr.  Park- 
hurst  in  the  capacity  of  back  part  of  a  camel. 

Having  rung  off,  or  rather  having  been  rung  off  on, 
Perry  sat  down  on  a  three-legged  stool  to  think  it  over. 
He  named  over  to  himself  those  friends  on  whom  he 
might  call,  and  then  his  mind  paused  as  Betty  MeduTs 
name  hazily  and  sorrowfully  occurred  to  him.  He  had 
a  sentimental  thought.  He  would  ask  her.  Their  love 
affair  was  over,  but  she  could  not  refuse  this  last  re 
quest.  Surely  it  was  not  much  to  ask — to  help  him 
keep  up  his  end  of  social  obligation  for  one  short  night. 
And  if  she  insisted,  she  could  be  the  front  part  of  the 
camel  and  he  would  go  as  the  back.  His  magnanimity 
pleased  him.  His  mind  even  turned  to  rosy-colored 
dreams  of  a  tender  reconciliation  inside  the  camel — 
there  hidden  away  from  all  the  world.  .  .  . 

"Now  you'd  better  decide  right  off." 

The  bourgeois  voice  of  Mrs.  Nolak  broke  in  upon  his 
mellow  fancies  and  roused  him  to  action.  He  went  to 
the  phone  and  called  up  the  Medill  house.  Miss  Betty 
was  out;  had  gone  out  to  dinner. 

Then,  when  all  seemed  lost,  the  camel's  back  wandered 
curiously  into  the  store.  He  was  a  dilapidated  indi 
vidual  with  a  cold  in  his  head  and  a  general  trend  about 
him  of  downwardness.  His  cap  was  pulled  down  low 
on  his  head,  and  his  chin  was  pulled  down  low  on  his 
chest,  his  coat  hung  down  to  his  shoes,  he  looked  run- 


38  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

down,  down  at  the  heels,  and — Salvation  Army  to  the 
contrary — down  and  out.  He  said  that  he  was  the 
taxicab-driver  that  the  gentleman  had  hired  at  the 
Clarendon  Hotel.  He  had  been  instructed  to  wait 
outside,  but  he  had  waited  some  time,  and  a  suspicion 
had  grown  upon  him  that  the  gentleman  had  gone  out 
the  back  way  with  purpose  to  defraud  him — gentlemen 
sometimes  did — so  he  had  come  in.  He  sank  down 
onto  the  three-legged  stool. 

"Wanta  go  to  a  party?"  demanded  Perry  sternly. 

"I  gotta  work/'  answered  the  taxi-driver  lugubriously. 
"I  gotta  keep  my  job." 

"It's  a  very  good  party." 

";S  a  very  good  job." 

"Come  on!"  urged  Perry.  "Be  a  good  fella.  See — 
it's  pretty ! "  He  held  the  camel  up  and  the  taxi-driver 
looked  at  it  cynically. 

"Huh!" 

Perry  searched  feverishly  among  the  folds  of  the  cloth. 

"See!"  he  cried  enthusiastically,  holding  up  a  selec 
tion  of  folds.  "This  is  your  part.  You  don't  even 
have  to  talk.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  walk — and  sit 
down  occasionally.  You  do  all  the  sitting  down. 
Think  of  it.  I'm  on  my  feet  all  the  time  and  you  can 
sit  down  some  of  the  time.  The  only  time  /  can  sit 
down  is  when  we're  lying  down,  and  you  can  sit  down 
when — oh,  any  time.  See  ? " ... 

"What's  'at  thing?"  demanded  the  individual  dubi 
ously.  "A  shroud?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Perry  indignantly.     "It's  a  camel." 

"Huh?" 

Then  Perry  mentioned  a  sum  of  money,  and  the  con 
versation  left  the  land  of  grunts  and  assumed  a  practical 
tinge.  Perry  and  the  taxi-driver  tried  on  the  camel  in 
front  of  the  mirror. 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  39 

"You  can't  see  it,"  explained  Perry,  peering  anxiously 
out  through  the  eyeholes,  "but  honestly,  ole  man,  you 
look  sim'ly  great !  Honestly ! " 

A  grunt  from  the  hump  acknowledged  this  somewhat 
dubious  compliment. 

"Honestly,  you  look  great!"  repeated  Perry  enthusi 
astically.  "Move  round  a  little." 

The  hind  legs  moved  forward,  giving  the  effect  of 
a  huge  cat-camel  hunching  his  back  preparatory  to  a 
spring. 

"No;  move  sideways." 

The  camel's  hips  went  neatly  out  of  joint;  a  hula 
dancer  would  have  writhed  in  envy. 

"Good,  isn't  it?"  demanded  Perry,  turning  to  Mrs. 
Nolak  for  approval. 

"It  looks  lovely,"  agreed  Mrs.  Nolak. 

"We'll  take  it,"  said  Perry. 

The  bundle  was  stowed  under  Perry's  arm  and  they 
left  the  shop. 

"Go  to  the  party!"  he  commanded  as  he  took  his 
seat  in  the  back. 

"What  party?" 

"Fanzy-dress  party." 

"Where'boutsisit?" 

This  presented  a  new  problem.  Perry  tried  to  re 
member,  but  the  names  of  all  those  who  had  given 
parties  during  the  holidays  danced  confusedly  before 
his  eyes.  He  could  ask  Mrs.  Nolak,  but  on  looking 
out  the  window  he  saw  that  the  shop  was  dark.  Mrs. 
Nolak  had  already  faded  out,  a  little  black  smudge  far 
down  the  snowy  street. 

"Drive  uptown,"  directed  Perry  with  fine  confidence. 
"If  you  see  a  party,  stop.  Otherwise  I'll  tell  you  when 
we  get  there." 

He  fell  into  a  hazy  daydream  and  his  thoughts  wan- 


40  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

dered  again  to  Betty — he  imagined  vaguely  that  they 
had  had  a  disagreement  because  she  refused  to  go  to  the 
party  as  the  back  part  of  the  camel.  He  was  just 
slipping  off  into  a  chilly  doze  when  he  was  wakened  by 
the  taxi-driver  opening  the  door  and  shaking  him  by  the 
arm. 

"Here  we  are,  maybe." 

Perry  looked  out  sleepily.  A  striped  awning  led  from 
the  curb  up  to  a  spreading  gray  stone  house,  from 
which  issued  the  low  drummy  whine  of  expensive 
jazz.  He  recognized  the  Howard  Tate  house. 

"Sure,"  he  said  emphatically;  " 'at's  it!  Tate's 
party  to-night.  Sure,  everybody's  goin'." 

"Say,"  said  the  individual  anxiously  after  another 
look  at  the  awning,  "you  sure  these  people  ain't  gonna 
romp  on  me  for  comin'  here  ?" 

Perry  drew  himself  up  with  dignity. 

"  'F  anybody  says  anything  to  you,  just  tell  'em  you're 
part  of  my  costume." 

The  visualization  of  himself  as  a  thing  rather  than  a 
person  seemed  to  reassure  the  individual. 

"All  right,"  he  said  reluctantly. 

Perry  stepped  out  under  the  shelter  of  the  awning 
and  began  unrolling  the  camel. 

"Let's  go,"  he  commanded. 

Several  minutes  later  a  melancholy,  hungry-looking 
camel,  emitting  clouds  of  smoke  from  his  mouth  and 
from  the  tip  of  his  noble  hump,  might  have  been  seen 
crossing  the  threshhold  of  the  Howard  Tate  residence, 
passing  a  startled  footman  without  so  much  as  a  snort, 
and  heading  directly  for  the  main  stairs  that  led  up  to 
the  ballroom.  The  beast  walked  with  a  peculiar  gait 
which  varied  between  an  uncertain  lockstep  and  a 
stampede — but  can  best  be  described  by  the  word 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  41 

"halting."  The  camel  had  a  halting  gait — and  as  he 
walked  he  alternately  elongated  and  contracted  like  a 
gigantic  concertina. 

Ill 

The  Howard  Tates  are,  as  every  one  who  lives  in  To 
ledo  knows,  the  most  formidable  people  in  town.  Mrs. 
Howard  Tate  was  a  Chicago  Todd  before  she  became  a 
Toledo  Tate,  and  the  family  generally  affect  that  con 
scious  simplicity  which  has  begun  to  be  the  earmark  of 
American  aristocracy.  The  Tates  have  reached  the 
stage  where  they  talk  about  pigs  and  farms  and  look  at 
you  icy-eyed  if  you  are  not  amused.  They  have  begun 
to  prefer  retainers  rather  than  friends  as  dinner  guests, 
spend  a  lot  of  money  in  a  quiet  way,  and,  having  lost 
all  sense  of  competition,  are  in  process  of  growing  quite 
dull. 

The  dance  this  evening  was  for  little  Millicent 
Tate,  and  though  all  ages  were  represented,  the  dan 
cers  were  mostly  from  school  and  college — the  youn 
ger  married  crowd  was  at  the  Townsends'  circus  ball 
up  at  the  Tallyho  Club.  Mrs.  Tate  was  standing 
just  inside  the  ballroom,  following  Millicent  round 
with  her  eyes,  and  beaming  whenever  she  caught  her 
eye.  Beside  her  were  two  middle-aged  sycophants, 
who  were  saying  what  a  perfectly  exquisite  child  Milli 
cent  was.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  Mrs.  Tate  was 
grasped  firmly  by  the  skirt  and  her  youngest  daughter, 
Emily,  aged  eleven,  hurled  herself  with  an  "Oof !"  into 
her  mother's  arms. 

"Why,  Emily,  what's  the  trouble?" 

"Mamma,"  said  Emily,  wild-eyed  but  voluble, 
"there's  something  out  on  the  stairs." 


42  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"What?" 

"There's  a  thing  out  on  the  stairs,  mamma.  I  think 
it's  a  big  dog,  mamma,  but  it  doesn't  look  like  a  dog." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Emily  ?" 

The  sycophants  waved  their  heads  sympatheti 
cally. 

"Mamma,  it  looks  like  a — like  a  camel." 

Mrs.  Tate  laughed. 

"You  saw  a  mean  old  shadow,  dear,  that's  all." 

"No,  I  didn't.  No,  it  was  some  kind  of  thing,  mamma 
— big.  I  was  going  down-stairs  to  see  if  there  were  any 
more  people,  and  this  dog  or  something,  he  was  coming 
up-stairs.  Kinda  funny,  mamma,  like  he  was  lame. 
And  then  he  saw  me  and  gave  a  sort  of  growl,  and  then 
he  slipped  at  the  top  of  the  landing,  and  I  ran." 

Mrs.  Tate's  laugh  faded. 

"The  child  must  have  seen  something,"  she  said. 

The  sycophants  agreed  that  the  child  must  have  seen 
something — and  suddenly  all  three  women  took  an  in 
stinctive  step  away  from  the  door  as  the  sounds  of 
muffled  steps  were  audible  just  outside. 

And  then  three  startled  gasps  rang  out  as  a  dark 
brown  form  rounded  the  corner,  and  they  saw  what 
was  apparently  a  huge  beast  looking  down  at  them 
hungrily. 

"Oof!  "cried  Mrs.  Tate. 

"O-o-oh!"  cried  the  ladies  in  a  chorus. 

The  camel  suddenly  humped  his  back,  and  the  gasps 
turned  to  shrieks. 

"Oh— look!" 

"What  is  it?" 

The  dancing  stopped,  but  the  dancers  hurrying 
over  got  quite  a  different  impression  of  the  invader; 
in  fact,  the  young  people  immediately  suspected  that 


THE   CAMEL'S  BACK  43 

it  was  a  stunt,  a  hired  entertainer  come  to  amuse 
the  party.  The  boys  in  long  trousers  looked  at  it 
rather  disdainfully,  and  sauntered  over  with  their 
hands  in  their  pockets,  feeling  that  their  intelligence 
was  being  insulted.  But  the  girls  uttered  little  shouts 
of  glee. 

" It's  a  camel!" 

"Well,  if  he  isn't  the  funniest!" 

The  camel  stood  there  uncertainly,  swaying  slightly 
from  side  to  side,  and  seeming  to  take  in  the  room  in  a 
careful,  appraising  glance;  then  as  if  he  had  come  to  an 
abrupt  decision  he  turned  and  ambled  swiftly  out  the 
door. 

Mr.  Howard  Tate  had  just  come  out  of  the  library  on 
the  lower  floor,  and  was  standing  chatting  with  a  young 
man  in  the  hall.  Suddenly  they  heard  the  noise  of 
shouting  up-stairs,  and  almost  immediately  a  succession 
of  bumping  sounds,  followed  by  the  precipitous  appear 
ance  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway  of  a  large  brown  beast 
that  seemed  to  be  going  somewhere  in  a  great  hurry. 

"Now  what  the  devil!"  said  Mr.  Tate,  starting. 

The  beast  picked  itself  up  not  without  dignity  and, 
affecting  an  air  of  extreme  nonchalance,  as  if  he  had 
just  remembered  an  important  engagement,  started  at 
a  mixed  gait  toward  the  front  door.  In  fact,  his  front 
legs  began  casually  to  run. 

"See  here  now,"  said  Mr.  Tate  sternly.  "Here! 
Grab  it,  Butterfield !  Grab  it ! " 

The  young  man  enveloped  the  rear  of  the  camel 
in  a  pair  of  compelling  arms,  and,  realizing  that 
further  locomotion  was  impossible,  the  front  end  sub 
mitted  to  capture  and  stood  resignedly  in  a  state  of 
some  agitation.  By  this  time  a  flood  of  young  people 
was  pouring  down-stairs,  and  Mr.  Tate,  suspecting 


44  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

everything  from  an  ingenious  burglar  to  an  escaped 
lunatic,  gave  crisp  directions  to  the  young  man: 

"Hold  him!    Lead  him  in  here;  we'll  soon  see." 

The  camel  consented  to  be  led  into  the  library,  and  Mr. 
Tate,  after  locking  the  door,  took  a  revolver  from  a  table 
drawer  and  instructed  the  young  man  to  take  the  thing's 
head  off.  Then  he  gasped  and  returned  the  revolver 
to  its  hiding-place. 

"Well,  Perry  Parkhurst!"  he  exclaimed  in  amaze 
ment. 

"  Got  the  wrong  party,  Mr.  Tate,"  said  Perry  sheep 
ishly.  "Hope  I  didn't  scare  you." 

"Well — you  gave  us  a  thrill,  Perry."  Realization 
dawned  on  him.  "You're  bound  for  the  Townsends' 
circus  ball." 

"That's  the  general  idea." 

"Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Butterfield,  Mr.  Parkhurst." 
Then  turning  to  Perry:  "Butterfield  is  staying  with  us 
for  a  few  days." 

"I  got  a  little  mixed  up,"  mumbled  Perry.  "I'm 
very  sorry." 

"Perfectly  all  right;  most  natural  mistake  in  the 
world.  I've  got  a  clown  rig  and  I'm  going  down 
there  myself  after  a  while."  He  turned  to  Butter- 
field.  "Better  change  your  mind  and  come  down  with 
us." 

The  young  man  demurred.    He  was  going  to  bed. 

"Have  a  drink,  Perry?"  suggested  Mr.  Tate. 

"Thanks,  I  will." 

"And,  say,"  continued  Tate  quickly,  "I'd  forgotten  all 
about  your — friend  here."  He  indicated  the  rear  part 
of  the  camel.  "I  didn't  mean  to  seem  discourteous.  Is 
it  any  one  I  know  ?  Bring  him  out." 

"It's  not  a  friend,"  explained  Perry  hurriedly.  "I 
just  rented  him." 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  45 

"Does  he  drink?" 

"Do  you?"  demanded  Perry,  twisting  himself  tor 
tuously  round. 

There  was  a  faint  sound  of  assent. 

"Sure  he  does!"  said  Mr.  Tate  heartily.  "A  really 
efficient  camel  ought  to  be  able  to  drink  enough  so  it'd 
last  him  three  days." 

"Tell  you,"  said  Perry  anxiously,  "he  isn't  exactly 
dressed  up  enough  to  come  out.  If  you  give  me  the 
bottle  I  can  hand  it  back  to  him  and  he  can  take  his 
inside." 

From  under  the  cloth  was  audible  the  enthusiastic 
smacking  sound  inspired  by  this  suggestion.  When  a 
butler  had  appeared  with  bottles,  glasses,  and  siphon 
one  of  the  bottles  was  handed  back;  thereafter  the  si 
lent  partner  could  be  heard  imbibing  long  potations  at 
frequent  intervals. 

Thus  passed  a  benign  hour.  At  ten  o'clock  Mr.  Tate 
decided  that  they'd  better  be  starting.  He  donned  his 
clown's  costume;  Perry  replaced  the  camel's  head,  and 
side  by  side  they  traversed  on  foot  the  single  block  be 
tween  the  Tate  house  and  the  Tallyho  Club. 

The  circus  ball  was  in  full  swing.  A  great  tent  fly 
had  been  put  up  inside  the  ballroom  and  round  the  walls 
had  been  built  rows  of  booths  representing  the  various 
attractions  of  a  circus  side  show,  but  these  were  now 
vacated  and  over  the  floor  swarmed  a  shouting,  laughing 
medley  of  youth  and  color — clowns,  bearded  ladies, 
acrobats,  bareback  riders,  ringmasters,  tattooed  men, 
and  charioteers.  The  Townsends  had  determined  to 
assure  their  party  of  success,  so  a  great  quantity  of 
liquor  had  been  surreptitiously  brought  over  from 
their  house  and  was  now  flowing  freely.  A  green 
ribbon  ran  along  the  wall  completely  round  the  ball 
room,  with  pointing  arrows  alongside  and  signs  which 


46  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

instructed  the  uninitiated  to  " Follow  the  green  line!" 
The  green  line  led  down  to  the  bar,  where  waited 
pure  punch  and  wicked  punch  and  plain  dark-green 
bottles. 

On  the  wall  above  the  bar  was  another  arrow,  red 
and  very  wavy,  and  under  it  the  slogan:  "Now  follow 
this!" 

But  even  amid  the  luxury  of  costume  and  high  spirits 
represented  there,  the  entrance  of  the  camel  created 
something  of  a  stir,  and  Perry  was  immediately  sur 
rounded  by  a  curious,  laughing  crowd  attempting  to 
penetrate  the  identity  of  this  beast  that  stood  by  the 
wide  doorway  eying  the  dancers  with  his  hungry,  melan 
choly  gaze. 

And  then  Perry  saw  Betty  standing  in  front  of  a 
booth,  talking  to  a  comic  policeman.  She  was  dressed 
in  the  costume  of  an  Egyptian  snake-charmer:  her 
tawny  hair  was  braided  and  drawn  through  brass 
rings,  the  effect  crowned  with  a  glittering  Oriental  tiara. 
Her  fair  face  was  stained  to  a  warm  olive  glow  and  on 
her  arms  and  the  half  moon  of  her  back  writhed 
painted  serpents  with  single  eyes  of  venomous  green. 
Her  feet  were  in  sandals  and  her  skirt  was  slit  to  the 
knees,  so  that  when  she  walked  one  caught  a  glimpse 
of  other  slim  serpents  painted  just  above  her  bare  an 
kles.  Wound  about  her  neck  was  a  glittering  cobra. 
Altogether  a  charming  costume — one  that  caused  the 
more  nervous  among  the  older  women  to  shrink  away 
from  her  when  she  passed,  and  the  more  troublesome 
ones  to  make  great  talk  about  "shouldn't  be  allowed" 
and  "perfectly  disgraceful." 

But  Perry,  peering  through  the  uncertain  eyes  of 
the  camel,  saw  only  her  face,  radiant,  animated,  and 
glowing  with  excitement,  and  her  arms  and  shoulders, 
whose  mobile,  expressive  gestures  made  her  always  the 
outstanding  figure  in  any  group.  He  was  fascinated 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  47 

and  his  fascination  exercised  a  sobering  effect  on  him. 
With  a  growing  clarity  the  events  of  the  day  came  back 
— rage  rose  within  him,  and  with  a  half-formed  inten 
tion  of  taking  her  away  from  the  crowd  he  started  toward 
her — or  rather  he  elongated  slightly,  for  he  had  neglected 
to  issue  the  preparatory  command  necessary  to  locomo 
tion. 

But  at  this  point  fickle  Kismet,  who  for  a  day  had 
played  with  him  bitterly  and  sardonically,  decided  to 
reward  him  in  full  for  the  amusement  he  had  afforded 
her.  Kismet  turned  the  tawny  eyes  of  the  snake- 
charmer  to  the  camel.  Kismet  led  her  to  lean  toward 
the  man  beside  her  and  say,  " Who's  that?  That 
camel?" 

"Darned  if  I  know." 

But  a  little  man  named  Warburton,  who  knew  it  all, 
found  it  necessary  to  hazard  an  opinion: 

"It  came  in  with  Mr.  Tate.  I  think  part  of  it's 
probably  Warren  Butterfield,  the  architect  from  New 
York,  who's  visiting  the  Tates." 

Something  stirred  in  Betty  Medill — that  age-old  in 
terest  of  the  provincial  girl  in  the  visiting  man. 

"Oh,"  she  said  casually  after  a  slight  pause. 

At  the  end  of  the  next  dance  Betty  and  her  partner 
finished  up  within  a  few  feet  of  the  camel.  With 
the  informal  audacity  that  was  the  key-note  of  the 
evening  she  reached  out  and  gently  rubbed  the  camel's 
nose. 

"Hello,  old  camel." 

The  camel  stirred  uneasily. 

"You  'fraid  of  me?"  said  Betty,  lifting  her  eyebrows 
in  reproof.  "Don't  be.  You  see  I'm  a  snake-charmer, 
but  I'm  pretty  good  at  camels  too." 

The  camel  bowed  very  low  and  some  one  made  the 
obvious  remark  about  beauty  and  the  beast. 

Mrs.  Townsend  approached  the  group. 


48  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Well,Mr.Butterfield,"she  said  helpfully,  "I wouldn't 
have  recognized  you." 

Perry  bowed  again  and  smiled  gleefully  behind  his 
mask. 

"And  who  is  this  with  you  ?"  she  inquired. 

"Oh,"  said  Perry,  his  voice  muffled  by  the  thick  cloth 
and  quite  unrecognizable,  "he  isn't  a  fellow,  Mrs. 
Townsend.  He's  just  part  of  my  costume." 

Mrs.  Townsend  laughed  and  moved  away.  Perry 
turned  again  to  Betty. 

"So,"  he  thought,  "this  is  how  much  she  cares! 
On  the  very  day  of  our  final  rupture  she  starts  a  flirta 
tion  with  another  man — an  absolute  stranger." 

On  an  impulse  he  gave  her  a  soft  nudge  with  his 
shoulder  and  waved  his  head  suggestively  toward  the 
hall,  making  it  clear  that  he  desired  her  to  leave  her 
partner  and  accompany  him. 

"By-by,  Rus,"  she  called  to  her  partner.  "This  old 
camel's  got  me.  Where  we  going,  Prince  of  Beasts  ?" 

The  noble  animal  made  no  rejoinder,  but  stalked 
gravely  along  in  the  direction  of  a  secluded  nook  on  the 
side  stairs. 

There  she  seated  herself,  and  the  camel,  after  some 
seconds  of  confusion  which  included  gruff  orders  and 
sounds  of  a  heated  dispute  going  on  in  his  interior, 
placed  himself  beside  her — his  hind  legs  stretching  out 
uncomfortably  across  two  steps. 

"Well,  old  egg,"  said  Betty  cheerfully,  "how  do  you 
like  our  happy  party  ? " 

The  old  egg  indicated  that  he  liked  it  by  rolling  his 
head  ecstatically  and  executing  a  gleeful  kick  with  his 
hoofs. 

"This  is  the  first  time  that  I  ever  had  a  tete-a-tete 
with  a  man's  valet  'round" — she  pointed  to  the  hind 
legs — "or  whatever  that  is." 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  49 

"Oh,"  mumbled  Perry,  "he's  deaf  and  blind." 

"I  should  think  you'd  feel  rather  handicapped — you 
can't  very  well  toddle,  even  if  you  want  to." 

The  camel  hung  his  head  lugubriously. 

"I  wish  you'd  say  something,"  continued  Betty 
sweetly.  "Say  you  like  me,  camel.  Say  you  think 
I'm  beautiful.  Say  you'd  like  to  belong  to  a  pretty 
snake-charmer." 

The  camel  would. 

"Will  you  dance  with  me,  camel  ?" 

The  camel  would  try. 

Betty  devoted  half  an  hour  to  the  camel.  She  de 
voted  at  least  half  an  hour  to  all  visiting  men.  It  was 
usually  sufficient.  When  she  approached  a  new  man 
the  current  debutantes  were  accustomed  to  scatter 
right  and  left  like  a  close  column  deploying  before  a 
machine-gun.  And  so  to  Perry  Parkhurst  was  awarded 
the  unique  privilege  of  seeing  his  love  as  others  saw  her. 
He  was  flirted  with  violently ! 

IV 

This  paradise  of  frail  foundation  was  broken  into  by 
the  sounds  of  a  general  ingress  to  the  ballroom;  the 
cotillion  was  beginning.  Betty  and  the  camel  joined 
the  crowd,  her  brown  hand  resting  lightly  on  his 
shoulder,  defiantly  symbolizing  her  complete  adoption 
of  him. 

When  they  entered  the  coiiples  were  already  seating 
themselves  at  tables  round  the  walls,  and  Mrs.  Town- 
send,  resplendent  as  a  super  bareback  rider  with 
rather  too  rotund  calves,  was  standing  in  the  centre 
with  the  ringmaster  in  charge  of  arrangements.  At 
a  signal  to  the  band  every  one  rose  and  began  to 
dance. 


50  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Isn't  it  just  slick!"  sighed  Betty.  "Do  you  think 
you  can  possibly  dance  ? " 

Perry  nodded  enthusiastically.  He  felt  suddenly 
exuberant.  After  all,  he  was  here  incognito  talking  to 
his  love — he  could  wink  patronizingly  at  the  world. 

So  Perry  danced  the  cotillion.  I  say  danced,  but  that 
is  stretching  the  word  far  beyond  the  wildest  dreams  of 
the  jazziest  terpsichorean.  He  suffered  his  partner  to 
put  her  hands  on  his  helpless  shoulders  and  pull  him 
here  and  there  over  the  floor  while  he  hung  his  huge 
head  docilely  over  her  shoulder  and  made  futile  dummy 
motions  with  his  feet.  His  hind  legs  danced  in  a  manner 
all  their  own,  chiefly  by  hopping  first  on  one  foot  and 
then  on  the  other.  Never  being  sure  whether  dancing 
was  going  on  or  not,  the  hind  legs  played  safe  by  going 
through  a  series  of  steps  whenever  the  music  started 
playing.  So  the  spectacle  was  frequently  presented  of 
the  front  part  of  the  camel  standing  at  ease  and  the  rear 
keeping  up  a  constant  energetic  motion  calculated  to 
rouse  a  sympathetic  perspiration  in  any  soft-hearted 
observer. 

He  was  frequently  favored.  He  danced  first  with  a 
tall  lady  covered  with  straw  who  announced  jovially 
that  she  was  a  bale  of  hay  and  coyly  begged  him  not  to 
eat  her. 

"I'd  like  to;  you're  so  sweet,"  said  the  camel  gal 
lantly. 

Each  time  the  ringmaster  shouted  his  call  of  "Men 
up!"  he  lumbered  ferociously  for  Betty  with  the  card 
board  wienerwurst  or  the  photograph  of  the  bearded 
lady  or  whatever  the  favor  chanced  to  be.  Sometimes 
he  reached  her  first,  but  usually  his  rushes  were  unsuc 
cessful  and  resulted  in  intense  interior  arguments. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  Perry  would  snarl  fiercely  be 
tween  his  clenched  teeth,  "get  a  little  pep!  I  could 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  51 

have  gotten  her  that  time  if  you'd  picked  your  feet 
up." 

"Well,  gimme  a  little  warnin' !" 

"I  did,  darn  you." 

"I  can't  see  a  dog-gone  thing  in  here." 

"All  you  have  to  do  is  follow  me.  It's  just  like  drag 
ging  a  load  of  sand  round  to  walk  with  you." 

"Maybe  you  wanta  try  back  here." 

"You  shut  up!  If  these  people  found  you  in  this 
room  they'd  give  you  the  worst  beating  you  ever  had. 
They'd  take  your  taxi  license  away  from  you !" 

Perry  surprised  himself  by  the  ease  with  which  he 
made  this  monstrous  threat,  but  it  seemed  to  have  a 
soporific  influence  on  his  companion,  for  he  gave  out  an 
"aw  gwan"  and  subsided  into  abashed  silence. 

The  ringmaster  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  piano  and 
waved  his  hand  for  silence. 

"Prizes ! "  he  cried.     " Gather  round ! " 

"Yea!    Prizes!" 

Self-consciously  the  circle  swayed  forward.  The 
rather  pretty  girl  who  had  mustered  the  nerve  to  come 
as  a  bearded  lady  trembled  with  excitement,  thinking 
to  be  rewarded  for  an  evening's  hideousness.  The  man 
who  had  spent  the  afternoon  having  tattoo  marks  painted 
on  him  skulked  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  blushing  furi 
ously  when  any  one  told  him  he  was  sure  to  get  it. 

"Lady  and  gent  performers  of  this  circus,"  announced 
the  ringmaster  jovially,  "I  am  sure  we  will  all  agree 
that  a  good  time  has  been  had  by  all.  We  will  now  be 
stow  honor  where  honor  is  due  by  bestowing  the  prizes. 
Mrs.  Townsend  has  asked  me  to  bestow  the  prizes. 
Now,  fellow  performers,  the  first  prize  is  for  that  lady 
who  has  displayed  this  evening  the  most  striking,  be 
coming" — at  this  point  the  bearded  lady  sighed  re 
signedly — "and  original  costume."  Here  the  bale  of 


52  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

hay  pricked  up  her  ears.  "Now  I  am  sure  that  the 
decision  which  has  been  agreed  upon  will  be  unanimous 
with  all  here  present.  The  first  prize  goes  to  Miss  Betty 
Medill,  the  charming  Egyptian  snake-charmer." 

There  was  a  burst  of  applause,  chiefly  masculine, 
and  Miss  Betty  Medill,  blushing  beautifully  through  her 
olive  paint,  was  passed  up  to  receive  her  award.  With 
a  tender  glance  the  ringmaster  handed  down  to  her  a 
huge  bouquet  of  orchids. 

"And  now,"  he  continued,  looking  round  him,  "the 
other  prize  is  for  that  man  who  has  the  most  amusing 
and  original  costume.  This  prize  goes  without  dispute 
to  a  guest  in  our  midst,  a  gentleman  who  is  visiting  here 
but  whose  stay  we  all  hope  will  be  long  and  merry — in 
short,  to  the  noble  camel  who  has  entertained  us  all  by 
his  hungry  look  and  his  brilliant  dancing  throughout 
the  evening." 

He  ceased  and  there  was  a  violent  clapping  and  yea- 
ing,  for  it  was  a  popular  choice.  The  prize,  a  large  box 
of  cigars,  was  put  aside  for  the  camel,  as  he  was  ana 
tomically  unable  to  accept  it  in  person. 

"And  now,"  continued  the  ringmaster,  "we  will 
wind  up  the  cotillion  with  the  marriage  of  Mirth  to 
Folly! 

"Form  for  the  grand  wedding  march,  the  beautiful 
snake-charmer  and  the  noble  camel  in  front ! " 

Betty  skipped  forward  cheerily  and  wound  an  olive 
arm  round  the  camel's  neck.  Behind  them  formed  the 
procession  of  little  boys,  little  girls,  country  jakes,  fat 
ladies,  thin  men,  sword-swallowers,  wild  men  of  Borneo, 
and  armless  wonders,  many  of  them  well  in  their  cups, 
all  of  them  excited  and  happy  and  dazzled  by  the  flow 
of  light  and  color  round  them,  and  by  the  familiar  faces, 
strangely  unfamiliar  under  bizarre  wigs  and  barbaric 
paint.  The  voluptuous  chords  of  the  wedding  march 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  53 

done  in  blasphemous  syncopation  issued  in  a  delirious 
blend  from  the  trombones  and  saxophones — and  the 
march  began. 

"Aren't  you  glad,  camel?"  demanded  Betty  sweetly 
as  they  stepped  off.  "  Aren't  you  glad  we're  going  to 
be  married  and  you're  going  to  belong  to  the  nice  snake- 
charmer  ever  afterward?" 

The  camel's  front  legs  pranced,  expressing  excessive 
joy. 

"Minister!  Minister!  Where's  the  minister?"  cried 
voices  out  of  the  revel.  "Who's  going  to  be  the  clergy 
man?" 

The  head  of  Jumbo,  obese  negro,  waiter  at  the  Tally- 
ho  Club  for  many  years,  appeared  rashly  through  a  half- 
opened  pantry  door. 

"Oh,  Jumbo!" 

"  Get  old  Jumbo.    He's  the  f eUa ! " 

"  Come  on,  Jumbo.   How  'bout  marrying  us  a  couple  ? " 

"Yea!" 

Jumbo  was  seized  by  four  comedians,  stripped  of  his 
apron,  and  escorted  to  a  raised  dais  at  the  head  of  the 
ball.  There  his  collar  was  removed  and  replaced  back 
side  forward  with  ecclesiastical  effect.  The  parade  sep 
arated  into  two  lines,  leaving  an  aisle  for  the  bride  and 
groom. 

"Lawdy,  man,"  roared  Jumbo,  "Ah  got  ole  Bible  V 
ev'ythin',  sho  nuff." 

He  produced  a  battered  Bible  from  an  interior  pocket. 

"  Yea !    Jumbo's  got  a  Bible ! " 

"Razor,  too,  I'll  bet!" 

Together  the  snake-charmer  and  the  camel  ascended 
the  cheering  aisle  and  stopped  in  front  of  Jumbo. 

"Where's  yo  license,  camel?" 

A  man  near  by  prodded  Perry. 

"Give  him  a  piece  of  paper.    Anything'll  do." 


54  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Perry  fumbled  confusedly  in  his  pocket,  found  a 
folded  paper,  and  pushed  it  out  through  the  camel's 
mouth.  Holding  it  upside  down  Jumbo  pretended  to 
scan  it  earnestly. 

"Dis  yeah's  a  special  camel's  license,"  he  said.  "Get 
you  ring  ready,  camel." 

Inside  the  camel  Perry  turned  round  and  addressed 
his  worse  half. 

"Gimme  a  ring,  for  Heaven's  sake!" 

"I  ain't  got  none,"  protested  a  weary  voice. 

"You  have.    I  saw  it." 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  take  it  off  en  my  hand." 

"If  you  don't  I'll  kill  you." 

There  was  a  gasp  and  Perry  felt  a  huge  affair  of 
rhinestone  and  brass  inserted  into  his  hand. 

Again  he  was  nudged  from  the  outside. 

"Speak  up!" 

"I  do!"  cried  Perry  quickly. 

He  heard  Betty's  responses  given  in  a  debonair  tone, 
and  even  in  this  burlesque  the  sound  thrilled  him. 

Then  he  had  pushed  the  rhinestone  through  a  tear 
in  the  camel's  coat  and  was  slipping  it  on  her  finger, 
muttering  ancient  and  historic  words  after  Jumbo. 
He  didn't  want  any  one  to  know  about  this  ever.  His 
one  idea  was  to  slip  away  without  having  to  disclose 
his  identity,  for  Mr.  Tate  had  so  far  kept  his  secret 
well.  A  dignified  young  man,  Perry — and  this  might 
injure  his  infant  law  practice. 

"Embrace  the  bride!" 

"Unmask,  camel,  and  kiss  her!" 

Instinctively  his  heart  beat  high  as  Betty  turned  to 
him  laughingly  and  began  to  stroke  the  card-board 
muzzle.  He  felt  his  self-control  giving  way,  he 
longed  to  surround  her  with  his  arms  and  declare  his 
identity  and  kiss  those  lips  that  smiled  only  a  foot 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  55 

away — when  suddenly  the  laughter  and  applause  round 
them  died  off  and  a  curious  hush  fell  over  the  hall. 
Perry  and  Betty  looked  up  in  surprise.  Jumbo  had 
given  vent  to  a  huge  " Hello!"  in  such  a  startled 
voice  that  all  eyes  were  bent  on  him. 

"Hello!"  he  said  again.  He  had  turned  round  the 
camel's  marriage  license,  which  he  had  been  holding  up 
side  down,  produced  spectacles,  and  was  studying  it 
agonizingly. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed,  and  in  the  pervading  silence 
his  words  were  heard  plainly  by  every  one  in  the  room, 
"this  yeah's  a  sho-nuff  marriage  permit." 

"What?" 

"Huh?" 

"Say  it  again,  Jumbo!" 

"  Sure  you  can  read  ?-" 

Jumbo  waved  them  to  silence  and  Perry's  blood 
burned  to  fire  in  his  veins  as  he  realized  the  break  he 
had  made. 

"Yassuh!"  repeated  Jumbo.  "This  yeah's  a  sho- 
nuff  license,  and  the  pa'ties  concerned  one  of  'em  is  dis 
yeah  young  lady,  Miz  Betty  Medill,  and  th'  other's 
Mistah  Perry  Pa'khurst." 

There  was  a  general  gasp,  and  a  low  rumble  broke  out 
as  all  eyes  fell  on  the  camel.  Betty  shrank  away 
from  him  quickly,  her  tawny  eyes  giving  out  sparks 
of  fury. 

"Is  you  Mistah  Pa'khurst,  you  camel?" 

Perry  made  no  answer.  The  crowd  pressed  up  closer 
and  stared  at  him.  He  stood  frozen  rigid  with  embar 
rassment,  his  cardboard  face  still  hungry  and  sardonic 
as  he  regarded  the  ominous  Jumbo. 

"Y'all  bettah  speak  up!"  said  Jumbo  slowly, 
"this  yeah's  a  mighty  serious  mattah.  Outside  mah 
duties  at  this  club  ah  happens  to  be  a  sho-nuff  minister 


56  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

in  the  Firs'  Cullud  Baptis'  Church.    It  done  look  to  me 
as  though  y'all  is  gone  an7  got  married." 


The  scene  that  followed  will  go  down  forever  in  the 
annals  of  the  Tallyho  Club.  Stout  matrons  fainted,  one 
hundred  per  cent  Americans  swore,  wild-eyed  debutantes 
babbled  in  lightning  groups  instantly  formed  and  in 
stantly  dissolved,  and  a  great  buzz  of  chatter,  virulent  yet 
oddly  subdued,  hummed  through  the  chaotic  ballroom. 
Feverish  youths  swore  they  would  kill  Perry  or  Jumbo 
or  themselves  or  some  one,  and  the  Baptis'  preacheh 
was  besieged  by  a  tempestuous  covey  of  clamorous 
amateur  lawyers,  asking  questions,  making  threats,  de 
manding  precedents,  ordering  the  bonds  annulled,  and 
especially  trying  to  ferret  out  any  hint  of  prearrange- 
ment  in  what  had  occurred. 

In  the  corner  Mrs.  Townsend  was  crying  softly  on 
the  shoulder  of  Mr.  Howard  Tate,  who  was  trying 
vainly  to  comfort  her;  they  were  exchanging  "all  my 
fault's"  volubly  and  voluminously.  Outside  on  a  snow- 
covered  walk  Mr.  Cyrus  Medill,  the  Aluminum  Man, 
was  being  paced  slowly  up  and  down  between  two 
brawny  charioteers,  giving  vent  now  to  a  string  of 
unrepeatables,  now  to  wild  pleadings  that  they'd  just 
let  him  get  at  Jumbo.  He  was  facetiously  attired  for 
the  evening  as  a  wild  man  of  Borneo,  and  the  most 
exacting  stage-manager  would  have  acknowledged  any 
improvement  in  casting  the  part  to  be  quite  impos 
sible. 

Meanwhile  the  two  principals  held  the  real  centre  of 
the  stage.  Betty  Medill — or  was  it  Betty  Parkhurst  ? — 
storming  furiously,  was  surrounded  by  the  plainer  girls 
— the  prettier  ones  were  too  busy  talking  about  her  to 


THE   CAMEL'S  BACK  57 

pay  much  attention  to  her — and  over  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hall  stood  the  camel,  still  intact  except  for  his 
headpiece,  which  dangled  pathetically  on  his  chest. 
Perry  was  earnestly  engaged  in  making  protestations  of 
his  innocence  to  a  ring  of  angry,  puzzled  men.  Every 
few  minutes,  just  as  he  had  apparently  proved  his  case, 
some  one  would  mention  the  marriage  certificate,  and 
the  inquisition  would  begin  again. 

A  girl  named  Marion  Cloud,  considered  the  second 
best  belle  of  Toledo,  changed  the  gist  of  the  situation 
by  a  remark  she  made  to  Betty. 

"Well,"  she  said  maliciously,  "it'll  all  blow  over, 
dear.  The  courts  will  annul  it  without  question." 

Betty's  angry  tears  dried  miraculously  in  her  eyes, 
her  lips  shut  tight  together,  and  she  looked  stonily  at 
Marion.  Then  she  rose  and,  scattering  her  sympathizers 
right  and  left,  walked  directly  across  the  room  to  Perry, 
who  stared  at  her  in  terror.  Again  silence  crept  down 
upon  the  room. 

"Will  you  have  the  decency  to  grant  me  five  minutes' 
conversation — or  wasn't  that  included  in  your  plans?" 

He  nodded,  his  mouth  unable  to  form  words. 

Indicating  coldly  that  he  was  to  follow  her  she  walked 
out  into  the  hall  with  her  chin  uptilted  and  headed  for 
the  privacy  of  one  of  the  little  card-rooms. 

Perry  started  after  her,  but  was  brought  to  a  jerky 
halt  by  the  failure  of  his  hind  legs  to  function. 

"You  stay  here!"  he  commanded  savagely. 

"I  can't,"  whined  a  voice  from  the-  hump,  "unless 
you  get  out  first  and  let  me  get  out." 

Perry  hesitated,  but  unable  any  longer  to  tolerate 
the  eyes  of  the  curious  crowd  he  muttered  a  command 
and  the  camel  moved  carefully  from  the  room  on  its 
four  legs. 

Betty  was  waiting  for  him. 


58  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Well/*  she  began  furiously,  "you  see  what  you've 
done!  You  and  that  crazy  license!  I  told  you  you 
shouldn't  have  gotten  it !  " 

"My  dear  girl,  I " 

"Don't  say  'dear  girl'  to  me!  Save  that  for  your 
real  wife  if  you  ever  get  one  after  this  disgraceful  per 
formance.  And  don't  try  to  pretend  it  wasn't  all  ar 
ranged.  You  know  you  gave  that  colored  waiter  money ! 
You  know  you  did !  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  didn't 
try  to  marry  me  ? " 

"No— of  course " 

"Yes,  you'd  better  admit  it!  You  tried  it,  and  now 
what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Do  you  know  my  father's 
nearly  crazy?  It'll  serve  you  right  if  he  tries  to  kill 
you.  He'll  take  his  gun  and  put  some  cold  steel  in  you. 
Even  if  this  wed — this  thing  can  be  annulled  it'll  hang 
over  me  all  the  rest  of  my  life !" 

Perry  could  not  resist  quoting  softly:  "'Oh,  camel, 
wouldn't  you  like  to  belong  to  the  pretty  snake-charmer 
for  all  your '  " 

"Shut  up!"  cried  Betty. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Betty,"  said  Perry  finally,  "there's  only  one  thing 
to  do  that  will  really  get  us  out  clear.  That's  for  you 
to  marry  me." 

"Marry  you!" 

"Yes.     Really  it's  the  only " 

"You  shut  up !    I  wouldn't  marry  you  if — if " 

"I  know.  If  I  were  the  last  man  on  earth.  But  if 
you  care  anything  about  your  reputation " 

"Reputation!"  she  cried.  "You're  a  nice  one  to 
think  about  my  reputation  now.  Why  didn't  you  think 
about  my  reputation  before  you  hired  that  horrible 
Jumbo  to — to " 

Perry  tossed  up  his  hands  hopelessly. 


THE  CAMEL'S  BACK  59 

"Very  well.  I'll  do  anything  you  want.  Lord  knows 
I  renounce  all  claims ! " 

"But/'  said  a  new  voice,  "I  don't." 

Perry  and  Betty  started,  and  she  put  her  hand  to  her 
heart. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  what  was  that?" 

"It's  me,"  said  the  camel's  back. 

In  a  minute  Perry  had  whipped  off  the  camel's  skin, 
and  a  lax,  limp  object,  his  clothes  hanging  on  him 
damply,  his  hand  clenched  tightly  on  an  almost  empty 
bottle,  stood  defiantly  before  them. 

"Oh,"  cried  Betty,  "you  brought  that  object  in  here 
to  frighten  me !  You  told  me  he  was  deaf — that  awful 
person!" 

The  camel's  back  sat  down  on  a  chair  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction. 

"Don't  talk  'at  way  about  me,  lady.  I  ain't  no  per 
son.  I'm  your  husband." 

"Husband!" 

The  cry  was  wrung  simultaneously  from  Betty  and 
Perry. 

"Why,  sure.  I'm  as  much  your  husband  as  that  gink 
is.  The  smoke  didn't  marry  you  to  the  camel's  front. 
He  married  you  to  the  whole  camel.  Why,  that's  my 
ring  you  got  on  your  finger!" 

With  a  little  yelp  she  snatched  the  ring  from  her  ringer 
and  flung  it  passionately  at  the  floor. 

"What's  all  this?"  demanded  Perry  dazedly. 

"  Jes'  that  you  better  fix  me  an'  fix  me  right.  If  you 
don't  I'm  a-gonna  have  the  same  claim  you  got  to  bein' 
married  to  her ! " 

"That's  bigamy,"  said  Perry,  turning  gravely  to 
Betty. 

Then  came  the  supreme  moment  of  Perry's  evening, 
the  ultimate  chance  on  which  he  risked  his  fortunes.  He 


60  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

rose  and  looked  first  at  Betty,  where  she  sat  weakly, 
aghast  at  this  new  complication,  and  then  at  the  indi 
vidual  who  swayed  from  side  to  side  on  his  chair,  un 
certainly,  menacingly. 

"Very  well,"  said  Perry  slowly  to  the  individual, 
"you  can  have  her.  Betty,  I'm  going  to  prove  to  you 
that  as  far  as  I'm  concerned  our  marriage  was  entirely 
accidental.  I'm  going  to  renounce  utterly  my  rights  to 
have  you  as  my  wife,  and  give  you  to — to  the  man 
whose  ring  you  wear — your  lawful  husband." 

There  was  a  pause  and  four  horror-stricken  eyes 
were  turned  on  him. 

"Good-by,  Betty,"  he  said  brokenly.  "Don't  for 
get  me  in  your  new-found  happiness.  I'm  going  to 
leave  for  the  Far  West  on  the  morning  train.  Think  of 
me  kindly,  Betty." 

With  a  last  glance  at  them  he  turned  and  his  head 
rested  on  his  chest  as  his  hand  touched  the  door-knob. 

"Good-by,"  he  repeated.    He  turned  the  door-knob. 

But  at  this  sound  the  snakes  and  silk  and  tawny  hair 
precipitated  themselves  violently  toward  him. 

"Oh,  Perry,  don't  leave  me!  Perry,  Perry,  take  me 
with  you!" 

Her  tears  flowed  damply  on  his  neck.  Calmly  he 
folded  his  arms  about  her. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  cried.  "I  love  you  and  if  you  can 
wake  up  a  minister  at  this  hour  and  have  it  done  over 
again  I'll  go  West  with  you." 

Over  her  shoulder  the  front  part  of  the  camel  looked 
at  the  back  part  of  the  camel — and  they  exchanged  a 
particularly  subtle,  esoteric  sort  of  wink  that  only  true 
camels  can  understand. 


MAY  DAY 

THERE  had  been  a  war  fought  and  won  and  the  great 
city  of  the  conquering  people  was  crossed  with  trium 
phal  arches  and  vivid  with  thrown  flowers  of  white, 
red,  and  rose.  All  through  the  long  spring  days  the  re 
turning  soldiers  marched  up  the  chief  highway  behind 
the  strump  of  drums  and  the  joyous,  resonant  wind  of 
the  brasses,  while  merchants  and  clerks  left  their  bick 
erings  and  figurings  and,  crowding  to  the  windows, 
turned  their  white-bunched  faces  gravely  upon  the  pass 
ing  battalions. 

Never  had  there  been  such  splendor  in  the  great  city, 
for  the  victorious  war  had  brought  plenty  in  its  train, 
and  the  merchants  had  flocked  thither  from  the  South 
and  West  with  their  households  to  taste  of  all  the  lus 
cious  feasts  and  witness  the  lavish  entertainments  pre 
pared — and  to  buy  for  their  women  furs  against  the  next 
winter  and  bags  of  golden  mesh  and  varicolored  slip 
pers  of  silk  and  silver  and  rose  satin  and  cloth  of  gold. 

So  gaily  and  noisily  were  the  peace  and  prosperity 
impending  hymned  by  the  scribes  and  poets  of  the  con 
quering  people  that  more  and  more  spenders  had  gath 
ered  from  the  provinces  to  drink  the  wine  of  excitement, 
and  faster  and  faster  did  the  merchants  dispose  of  their 
trinkets  and  slippers  until  they  sent  up  a  mighty  cry 
for  more  trinkets  and  more  slippers  in  order  that  they 
might  give  in  barter  what  was  demanded  of  them. 
Some  even  of  them  flung  up  their  hands  helplessly, 
shouting: 

"Alasl  I  have  no  more  slippers!  and  alas!  I  have  no 

61 


62  TALES   OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

more  trinkets !  May  Heaven  help  me,  for  I  know  not 
what  I  shall  do!" 

But  no  one  listened  to  their  great  outcry,  for  the 
throngs  were  far  too  busy — day  by  day,  the  foot-soldiers 
trod  jauntily  the  highway  and  all  exulted  because  the 
young  men  returning  were  pure  and  brave,  sound  of 
tooth  and  pink  of  cheek,  and  the  young  women  of  the 
land  were  virgins  and  comely  both  of  face  and  of  figure. 

So  during  all  this  time  there  were  many  adventures 
that  happened  in  the  great  city,  and,  of  these,  several — 
or  perhaps  one — are  here  set  down. 


At  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  first  of  May, 
1919,  a  young  man  spoke  to  the  room  clerk  at  the  Bilt- 
more  Hotel,  asking  if  Mr.  Philip  Dean  were  registered 
there,  and  if  so,  could  he  be  connected  with  Mr.  Dean's 
rooms.  The  inquirer  was  dressed  in  a  well-cut,  shabby 
suit.  He  was  small,  slender,  and  darkly  handsome; 
his  eyes  were  framed  above  with  unusually  long  eye 
lashes  and  below  with  the  blue  semicircle  of  ill  health, 
this  latter  effect  heightened  by  an  unnatural  glow  which 
colored  his  face  like  a  low,  incessant  fever. 

Mr.  Dean  was  staying  there.  The  young  man  was 
directed  to  a  telephone  at  the  side. 

After  a  second  his  connection  was  made;  a  sleepy 
voice  hello'd  from,  somewhere  above. 

"Mr.  Dean?" — this  very  eagerly — ait's  Gordon, 
Phil.  It's  Gordon  Sterrett.  I'm  down-stairs.  I  heard 
you  were  in  New  York  and  I  had  a  hunch  you'd  be  here." 

The  sleepy  voice  became  gradually  enthusiastic.  Well, 
how  was  Gordy,  old  boy!  Well,  he  certainly  was  sur 
prised  and  tickled!  Would  Gordy  come  right  up,  for 
Pete's  sake ! 


MAY  DAY  63 

A  few  minutes  later  Philip  Dean,  dressed  in  blue  silk 
pajamas,  opened  his  door  and  the  two  young  men  greeted 
each  other  with  a  half-embarrassed  exuberance.  They 
were  both  about  twenty-four,  Yale  graduates  of  the  year 
before  the  war;  but  there  the  resemblance  stopped 
abruptly.  Dean  was  blond,  ruddy,  and  rugged  under  his 
thin  pajamas.  Everything  about  him  radiated  fitness 
and  bodily  comfort.  He  smiled  frequently,  showing 
large  and  prominent  teeth. 

"I  was  going  to  look  you  up,"  he  cried  enthusiasti 
cally.  "I'm  taking  a  couple  of  weeks  off.  If  you'll  sit 
down  a  sec  I'll  be  right  with  you.  Going  to  take  a 
shower." 

As  he  vanished  into  the  bathroom  his  visitor's  dark 
eyes  roved  nervously  around  the  room,  resting  for  a 
moment  on  a  great  English  travelling  bag  in  the  corner 
and  on  a  family  of  thick  silk  shirts  littered  on  the  chairs 
amid  impressive  neckties  and  soft  woollen  socks. 

Gordon  rose  and,  picking  up  one  of  the  shirts,  gave  it 
a  minute  examination.  It  was  of  very  heavy  silk,  yel 
low,  with  a  pale  blue  stripe — and  there  were  nearly  a 
dozen  of  them.  He  stared  involuntarily  at  his  own 
shirt-cuffs — they  were  ragged  and  linty  at  the  edges  and 
soiled  to  a  faint  gray.  Dropping  the  silk  shirt,  he  held 
his  coat-sleeves  down  and  worked  the  frayed  shirt-cuffs 
up  till  they  were  out  of  sight.  Then  he  went  to  the 
mirror  and  looked  at  himself  with  listless,  unhappy 
interest.  His  tie,  of  former  glory,  was  faded  and  thumb- 
creased — it  served  no  longer  to  hide  the  jagged  button 
holes  of  his  collar.  He  thought,  quite  without  amuse 
ment,  that  only  three  years  before  he  had  received  a 
scattering  vote  in  the  senior  elections  at  college  for  being 
the  best-dressed  man  in  his  class. 

Dean  emerged  from  the  bathroom  polishing  his  body. 

"Saw  an  old  friend  of  yours  last  night,"  he  remarked. 


64  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Passed  her  in  the  lobby  and  couldn't  think  of  her  name 
to  save  my  neck.  That  girl  you  brought  up  to  New 
Haven  senior  year." 

Gordon  started. 

"Edith  Bradin  ?    That  whom  you  mean  ?" 

"'At's  the  one.  Damn  good  looking.  She's  still 
sort  of  a  pretty  doll — you  know  what  I  mean :  as  if  you 
touched  her  she'd  smear." 

He  surveyed  his  shining  self  complacently  in  the 
mirror,  smiled  faintly,  exposing  a  section  of  teeth. 

"She  must  be  twenty-three  anyway,"  he  continued. 

"Twenty- two  last  month,"  said  Gordon  absently. 

"What?  Oh,  last  month.  Well,  I  imagine  she's 
down  for  the  Gamma  Psi  dance.  Did  you  know  we're 
having  a  Yale  Gamma  Psi  dance  to-night  at  Delmoni- 
co's  ?  You  better  come  up,  Gordy.  Half  of  New 
Haven'll  probably  be  there.  I  can  get  you  an  invita 
tion." 

Draping  himself  reluctantly  in  fresh  underwear,  Dean 
lit  a  cigarette  and  sat  down  by  the  open  window,  in 
specting  his  calves  and  knees  under  the  morning  sun 
shine  which  poured  into  the  room. 

"Sit  down,  Gordy,"  he  suggested,  "and  tell  me  all 
about  what  you've  been  doing  and  what  you're  doing 
now  and  everything." 

Gordon  collapsed  unexpectedly  upon  the  bed;  lay 
there  inert  and  spiritless.  His  mouth,  which  habitually 
dropped  a  little  open  when  his  face  was  in  repose,  be 
came  suddenly  helpless  and  pathetic. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Dean  quickly. 

"Oh,  God!" 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Every  God  damn  thing  in  the  world,"  he  said  miser 
ably.  "I've  absolutely  gone  to  pieces,  Phil.  I'm  all 


in." 


MAY  DAY  65 

'"Huh?" 

"I'm  all  in."    His  voice  was  shaking. 

Dean  scrutinized  him  more  closely  with  appraising 
blue  eyes. 

"You  certainly  look  all  shot." 

"I  am.  I've  made  a  hell  of  a  mess  of  everything." 
He  paused.  "I'd  better  start  at  the  beginning — or  will 
it  bore  you  ? " 

"Not  at  all;  go  on."  There  was,  however,  a  hesitant 
note  in  Dean's  voice.  This  trip  East  had  been  planned 
for  a  holiday — to  find  Gordon  Sterrett  in  trouble  exas 
perated  him  a  little. 

"  Go  on,"  he  repeated,  and  then  added  half  under  his 
breath,  "Get  it  over  with." 

"Well,"  began  Gordon  unsteadily,  "I  got  back  from 
France  in  February,  went  home  to  Harrisburg  for  a 
month,  and  then  came  down  to  New  York  to  get  a  job. 
I  got  one — with  an  export  company.  They  fired  me 
yesterday." 

"Fired  you?" 

"I'm  coming  to  tnat,  Phil.  I  want  to  tell  you  frankly. 
You're  about  the  only  man  I  can  turn  to  in  a  matter  like 
this.  You  won't  mind  if  I  just  tell  you  frankly,  will 
you,  Phil?" 

Dean  stiffened  a  bit  more.  The  pats  he  was  bestow 
ing  on  his  knees  grew  perfunctory.  He  felt  vaguely  that 
he  was  being  unfairly  saddled  with  responsibility;  he 
was  not  even  sure  he  wanted  to  be  told.  Though 
never  surprised  at  finding  Gordon  Sterrett  in  mild 
difficulty,  there  was  something  in  this  present  misery 
that  repelled  him  and  hardened  him,  even  though  it 
excited  his  curiosity. 

"Goon." 

"It's  a  girl." 

"Hm."    Dean  resolved  that  nothing  was  going  to 


66  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

spoil  his  trip.  If  Gordon  was  going  to  be  depressing, 
then  he'd  have  to  see  less  of  Gordon. 

"Her  name  is  Jewel  Hudson,"  went  on  the  distressed 
voice  from  the  bed.  "She  used  to  be  'pure/  I  guess, 
up  to  about  a  year  ago.  Lived  here  in  New  York — 
poor  family.  Her  people  are  dead  now  and  she  lives 
with  an  old  aunt.  You  see  it  was  just  about  the  time 
I  met  her  that  everybody  began  to  come  back  from 
France  in  droves — and  all  I  did  was  to  welcome  the 
newly  arrived  and  go  on  parties  with  'em.  That's  the 
way  it  started,  Phil,  just  from  being  glad  to  see  every 
body  and  having  them  glad  to  see  me." 

"You  ought  toVe  had  more  sense." 

"I  know,"  Gordon  paused,  and  then  continued  list 
lessly.  "I'm  on  my  own  now,  you  know,  and  Phil,  I 
can't  stand  being  poor.  Then  came  this  darn  girl. 
She  sort  of  fell  in  love  with  me  for  a  while  and,  though  I 
never  intended  to  get  so  involved,  I'd  always  seem  to 
run  into  her  somewhere.  You  can  imagine  the  sort 
of  work  I  was  doing  for  those  exporting  people — of 
course,  I  always  intended  to  draw;  do  illustrating  for 
magazines;  there's  a  pile  of  money  in  it." 

"Why  didn't  you?  You've  got  to  buckle  down  if 
you  want  to  make  good,"  suggested  Dean  with  cold 
formalism. 

"I  tried,  a  little,  but  my  stuff's  crude.  I've  got  tal 
ent,  Phil;  I  can  draw — but  I  just  don't  know  how.  I 
ought  to  go  to  art  school  and  I  can't  afford  it.  Well, 
things  came  to  a  crisis  about  a  week  ago.  Just  as  I 
was  down  to  about  my  last  dollar  this  girl  began  bother 
ing  me.  She  wants  some  money;  claims  she  can  make 
trouble  for  me  if  she  doesn't  get  it." 

"Can  she?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  can.  That's  one  reason  I  lost  my 
job — she  kept  calling  up  the  office  all  the  time,  and  that 


MAY  DAY  67 

was  sort  of  the  last  straw  down  there.  She's  got  a 
letter  all  written  to  send  to  my  family.  Oh,  she's  got 
me,  all  right.  I've  got  to  have  some  money  for  her." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Gordon  lay  very  still, 
his  hands  clenched  by  his  side. 

"I'm  all  in,"  he  continued,  his  voice  trembling.  "I'm 
half  crazy,  Phil.  If  I  hadn't  known  you  were  coming 
East,  I  think  I'd  have  killed  myself.  I  want  you  to 
lend  me  three  hundred  dollars." 

Dean's  hands,  which  had  been  patting  his  bare  ankles, 
were  suddenly  quiet — and  the  curious  uncertainty  play 
ing  between  the  two  became  taut  and  strained. 

After  a  second  Gordon  continued: 

"I've  bled  the  family  until  I'm  ashamed  to  ask  for 
another  nickel." 

Still  Dean  made  no  answer. 

"Jewel  says  she's  got  to  have  two  hundred  dollars." 

"Tell  her  where  she  can  go." 

"Yes,  that  sounds  easy,  but  she's  got  a  couple  of 
drunken  letters  I  wrote  her.  Unfortunately  she's  not 
at  all  the  flabby  sort  of  person  you'd  expect." 

Dean  made  an  expression  of  distaste. 

"'I  can't  stand  that  sort  of  woman.  You  ought  to 
have  kept  away." 

"I  know,"  admitted  Gordon  wearily. 

"You've  got  to  look  at  things  as  they  are.  If  you 
haven't  got  money  you've  got  to  work  and  stay  away 
from  women." 

"That's  easy  for  you  to  say,"  began  Gordon,  his  eyes 
narrowing.  "You've  got  all  the  money  in  the  world." 

"I  most  certainly  have  not.  My  family  keep  darn 
close  tab  on  what  I  spend.  Just  because  I  have  a  little 
leeway  I  have  to  be  extra  careful  not  to  abuse  it." 

He  raised  the  blind  and  let  in  a  further  flood  of  sun 
shine. 


68  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"I'm  no  prig,  Lord  knows/'  he  went  on  deliberately. 
"I  like  pleasure — and  I  like  a  lot  of  it  on  a  vacation 
like  this,  but  you're — you're  in  awful  shape.  I  never 
heard  you  talk  just  this  way  before.  You  seem  to  be 
sort  of  bankrupt — morally  as  well  as  financially." 

''Don't  they  usually  go  together?" 

Dean  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"There's  a  regular  aura  about  you  that  I  don't  under 
stand.  It's  a  sort  of  evil." 

"It's  an  air  of  worry  and  poverty  and  sleepless 
nights,"  said  Gordon,  rather  defiantly. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Oh,  I  admit  I'm  depressing.  I  depress  myself.  But, 
my  God,  Phil,  a  week's  rest  and  a  new  suit  and  some 
ready  money  and  I'd  be  like — like  I  was.  Phil,  I  can 
draw  like  a  streak,  and  you  know  it.  But  half  the  time 
I  haven't  had  the  money  to  buy  decent  drawing  ma 
terials — and  I  can't  draw  when  I'm  tired  and  discour 
aged  and  all  in.  With  a  little  ready  money  I  can  take 
a  few  weeks  off  and  get  started." 

"How  do  I  know  you  wouldn't  use  it  on  some  other 
woman?" 

"Why  rub  it  in  ?"  said  Gordon  quietly. 

"I'm  not  rubbing  it  in.    I  hate  to  see  you  this  way." 

"Will  you  lend  me  the  money,  Phil  ?" 

"I  can't  decide  right  off.  That's  a  lot  of  money  and 
it'll  be  darn  inconvenient  for  me." 

"It'll  be  hell  for  me  if  you  can't — I  know  I'm  whining, 
and  it's  all  my  own  fault  but — that  doesn't  change  it." 

"When  could  you  pay  it  back  ?" 

This  was  encouraging.  Gordon  considered.  It  was 
probably  wisest  to  be  frank. 

"Of  course,  I  could  promise  to  send  it  back  next 
month,  but — I'd  better  say  three  months.  Just  as 
soon  as  I  start  to  sell  drawings." 


MAY  DAY  69 

"How  do  I  know  you'll  sell  any  drawings  ?" 

A  new  hardness  in  Dean's  voice  sent  a  faint  chill  of 
doubt  over  Gordon.  Was  it  possible  that  he  wouldn't 
get  the  money  ? 

"I  supposed  you  had  a  little  confidence  in  me." 

"I  did  have — but  when  I  see  you  like  this  I  begin  to 
wonder.'' 

"Do  you  suppose  if  I  wasn't  at  the  end  of  my  rope 
I'd  come  to  you  like  this  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  enjoying 
it?"  He  broke  off  and  bit  his  lip,  feeling  that  he  had 
better  subdue  the  rising  anger  in  his  voice.  After  all, 
he  was  the  suppliant. 

"You  seem  to  manage  it  pretty  easily/'  said  Dean 
angrily.  "You  put  me  in  the  position  where,  if  I  don't 
lend  it  to  you,  I'm  a  sucker — oh,  yes,  you  do.  And  let 
me  tell  you  it's  no  easy  thing  for  me  to  get  hold  of  three 
hundred  dollars.  My  income  isn't  so  big  but  that  a 
slice  like  that  won't  play  the  deuce  with  it." 

He  left  his  chair  and  began  to  dress,  choosing  his 
clothes  carefully.  Gordon  stretched  out  his  arms  and 
clenched  the  edges  of  the  bed,  fighting  back  a  de 
sire  to  cry  out.  His  head  was  splitting  and  whirring, 
his  mouth  was  dry  and  bitter  and  he  could  feel  the  fever 
in  his  blood  resolving  itself  into  innumerable  regular 
counts  like  a  slow  dripping  from  a  roof. 

Dean  tied  his  tie  precisely,  brushed  his  eyebrows,  and 
removed  a  piece  of  tobacco  from  his  teeth  with  solemnity. 
Next  he  filled  his  cigarette  case,  tossed  the  empty  box 
thoughtfully  into  the  waste  basket,  and  settled  the  case 
in  his  vest  pocket. 

"Had  breakfast?"  he  demanded. 

"No;  I  don't  eat  it  any  more." 

"Well,  we'll  go  out  and  have  some.  We'll  decide 
about  that  money  later.  I'm  sick  of  the  subject.  I 
came  East  to  have  a  good  time. 


70  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Let's  go  over  to  the  Yale  Club,"  he  continued 
moodily,  and  then  added  with  an  implied  reproof: 
"  You've  given  up  your  job.  YouVe  got  nothing  else 
to  do." 

"I'd  have  a  lot  to  do  if  I  had  a  little  money,"  said 
Gordon  pointedly. 

"Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake  drop  the  subject  for  a  while \ 
No  point  in  glooming  on  my  whole  trip.  Here,  here's 
some  money." 

He  took  a  five-dollar  bill  from  his  wallet  and  tossed 
it  over  to  Gordon,  who  folded  it  carefully  and  put  it 
in  his  pocket.  There  was  an  added  spot  of  color  in 
his  cheeks,  an  added  glow  that  was  not  fever.  For 
an  instant  before  they  turned  to  go  out  their  eyes  met 
and  in  that  instant  each  found  something  that  made 
him  lower  his  own  glance  quickly.  For  in  that  instant 
they  quite  suddenly  and  definitely  hated  each  other. 

II 

Fifth  Avenue  and  Forty-fourth  Street  swarmed  with 
the  noon  crowd.  The  wealthy,  happy  sun  glittered  in 
transient  gold  through  the  thick  windows  of  the  smart 
shops,  lighting  upon  mesh  bags  and  purses  and  strings 
of  pearls  in  gray  velvet  cases;  upon  gaudy  feather  fans  of 
many  colors;  upon  the  laces  and  silks  of  expensive 
dresses;  upon  the  bad  paintings  and  the  fine  period 
furniture  in  the  elaborate  show  rooms  of  interior  deco 
rators. 

Working-girls,  in  pairs  and  groups  and  swarms, 
loitered  by  these  windows,  choosing  their  future  boudoirs 
from  some  resplendent  display  which  included  even  a 
man's  silk  pajamas  laid  domestically  across  the  bed. 
They  stood  in  front  of  the  jewelry  stores  and  picked 


MAY  DAY  71 

out  their  engagement  rings,  and  their  wedding  rings 
and  their  platinum  wrist  watches,  and  then  drifted  on 
to  inspect  the  feather  fans  and  opera  cloaks;  meanwhile 
digesting  the  sandwiches  and  sundaes  they  had  eaten 
for  lunch. 

All  through  the  crowd  were  men  in  uniform,  sailors 
from  the  great  fleet  anchored  in  the  Hudson,  soldiers 
with  divisional  insignia  from  Massachusetts  to  Cali 
fornia,  wanting  fearfully  to  be  noticed,  and  finding  the 
great  city  thoroughly  fed  up  with  soldiers  unless  they 
were  nicely  massed  into  pretty  formations  and  uncom 
fortable  under  the  weight  of  a  pack  and  rifle. 

Through  this  medley  Dean  and  Gordon  wandered; 
the  former  interested,  made  alert  by  the  display  of  hu 
manity  at  its  frothiest  and  gaudiest;  the  latter  reminded 
of  how  often  he  had  been  one  of  the  crowd,  tired,  cas 
ually  fed,  overworked,  and  dissipated.  To  Dean  the 
struggle  was  significant,  young,  cheerful;  to  Gordon  it 
was  dismal,  meaningless,  endless. 

In  the  Yale  Club  they  met  a  group  of  their  former 
classmates  who  greeted  the  visiting  Dean  vociferously. 
Sitting  in  a  semicircle  of  lounges  and  great  chairs,  they 
had  a  highball  all  around. 

Gordon  found  the  conversation  tiresome  and  intermin 
able.  They  lunched  together  en  masse,  warmed  with 
liquor  as  the  afternoon  began.  They  were  all  going  to 
the  Gamma  Psi  dance  that  night — it  promised  to  be  the 
best  party  since  the  war. 

"Edith  Bradin's  coming,"  said  some  one  to  Gordon. 
"Didn't  she  used  to  be  an  old  flame  of  yours  ?  Aren't 
you  both  from  Harrisburg  ? " 

"Yes."  He  tried  to  change  the  subject.  "I  see  her 
brother  occasionally.  He's  sort  of  a  socialistic  nut. 
Runs  a  paper  or  something  here  in  New  York." 


72  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Not  like  his  gay  sister,  eh?"  continued  his  eager 
informant.  "Well,  she's  coming  to-night  with  a  junior 
named  Peter  Himmel." 

Gordon  was  to  meet  Jewel  Hudson  at  eight  o'clock — 
he  had  promised  to  have  some  money  for  her.  Several 
times  he  glanced  nervously  at  his  wrist  watch.  At  four, 
to  his  relief,  Dean  rose  and  announced  that  he  was  going 
over  to  Rivers  Brothers  to  buy  some  collars  and  ties. 
But  as  they  left  the  Club  another  of  the  party  joined 
them,  to  Gordon's  great  dismay.  Dean  was  in  a  jovial 
mood  now,  happy,  expectant  of  the  evening's  party, 
faintly  hilarious.  Over  in  Rivers'  he  chose  a  dozen 
neckties,  selecting  each  one  after  long  consultations  with 
the  other  man.  Did  he  think  narrow  ties  were  com 
ing  back  ?  And  wasn't  it  a  shame  that  Rivers  couldn't 
get  any  more  Welsh  Margotson  collars  ?  There  never 
was  a  collar  like  the  "Covington." 

Gordon  was  in  something  of  a  panic.  He  wanted 
the  money  immediately.  And  he  was  now  inspired 
also  with  a  vague  idea  of  attending  the  Gamma  Psi 
dance.  He  wanted  to  see  Edith — Edith  whom  he  hadn't 
met  since  one  romantic  night  at  the  Harrisburg  Country 
Club  just  before  he  went  to  France.  The  affair  had  died, 
drowned  in  the  turmoil  of  the  war  and  quite  forgotten 
in  the  arabesque  of  these  three  months,  but  a  picture 
of  her,  poignant,  debonnaire,  immersed  in  her  own  in 
consequential  chatter,  recurred  to  him  unexpectedly 
and  brought  a  hundred  memories  with  it.  It  was 
Edith's  face  that  he  had  cherished  through  college  with 
a  sort  of  detached  yet  affectionate  admiration.  He 
had  loved  to  draw  her — around  his  room  had  been  a 
dozen  sketches  of  her — playing  golf,  swimming — he 
could  draw  her  pert,  arresting  profile  with  his  eyes  shut. 

They  left  Rivers'  at  five-thirty  and  paused  for  a  mo 
ment  on  the  sidewalk. 


MAY  DAY  73 

"Well,"  said  Dean  genially,  "I'm  all  set  now.  Think 
111  go  back  to  the  hotel  and  get  a  shave,  haircut,  and 
massage." 

"Good  enough,"  said  the  other  man,  "I  think  I'll 
join  you." 

Gordon  wondered  if  he  was  to  be  beaten  after  all. 
With  difficulty  he  restrained  himself  from  turning  to 
the  man  and  snarling  out,  "Go  on  away,  damn  you!" 
In  despair  he  suspected  that  perhaps  Dean  had  spoken 
to  him,  was  keeping  him  along  in  order  to  avoid  a  dis 
pute  about  the  money. 

They  went  into  the  Biltmore — a  Biltmore  alive  with 
girls — mostly  from  the  West  and  South,  the  stellar  debu 
tantes  of  many  cities  gathered  for  the  dance  of  a  famous 
fraternity  of  a  famous  university.  But  to  Gordon 
they  were  faces  in  a  dream.  He  gathered  together  his 
forces  for  a  last  appeal,  was  about  to  come  out  with  he 
knew  not  what,  when  Dean  suddenly  excused  him 
self  to  the  other  man  and  taking  Gordon's  arm  led  him 
aside. 

"Gordy,"  he  said  quickly,  "I've  thought  the  whole 
thing  over  carefully  and  I've  decided  that  I  can't  lend 
you  that  money.  I'd  like  to  oblige  you,  but  I  don't 
feel  I  ought  to — it'd  put  a  crimp  in  me  for  a  month." 

Gordon,  watching  him  dully,  wondered  why  he  had 
never  before  noticed  how  much  those  upper  teeth  pro 
jected. 

" — I'm  mighty  sorry,  Gordon,"  continued  Dean, 
"but  that's  the  way  it  is." 

He  took  out  his  wallet  and  deliberately  counted  out 
seventy-five  dollars  in  bills. 

"Here,"  he  said,  holding  them  out,  "here's  seventy- 
five;  that  makes  eighty  all  together.  That's  all  the 
actual  cash  I  have  with  me,  besides  what  I'll  actually 
spend  on  the  trip." 


74  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Gordon  raised  his  clenched  hand  automatically, 
opened  it  as  though  it  were  a  tongs  he  was  holding, 
and  clenched  it  again  on  the  money. 

"I'll  see  you  at  the  dance,"  continued  Dean.  "I've 
got  to  get  along  to  the  barber  shop." 

"So-long,"  said  Gordon  in  a  strained  and  husky 
voice. 

"So-long." 

Dean  began  to  smile,  but  seemed  to  change  his  mind. 
He  nodded  briskly  and  disappeared. 

But  Gordon  stood  there,  his  handsome  face  awry 
with  distress,  the  roll  of  bills  clenched  tightly  in  his 
hand.  Then,  blinded  by  sudden  tears,  he  stumbled 
clumsily  down  the  Biltmore  steps. 

Ill 

About  nine  o'clock  of  the  same  night  two  human 
beings  came  out  of  a  cheap  restaurant  in  Sixth  Avenue. 
They  were  ugly,  ill-nourished,  devoid  of  all  except  the 
very  lowest  form  of  intelligence,  and  without  even  that 
animal  exuberance  that  in  itself  brings  color  into  life; 
they  were  lately  vermin-ridden,  cold,  and  hungry  in  a 
dirty  town  of  a  strange  land;  they  were  poor,  friendless; 
tossed  as  driftwood  from  their  births,  they  would  be 
tossed  as  driftwood  to  their  deaths.  They  were  dressed 
in  the  uniform  of  the  United  States  Army,  and  on  the 
shoulder  of  each  was  the  insignia  of  a  drafted  division 
from  New  Jersey,  landed  three  days  before. 

The  taller  of  the  two  was  named  Carrol  Key,  a  name 
hinting  that  in  his  veins,  however  thinly  diluted  by 
generations  of  degeneration,  ran  blood  of  some  poten 
tiality.  But  one  could  stare  endlessly  at  the  long,  chin- 
less  face,  the  dull,  watery  eyes,  and  high  cheek-bones, 
without  rinding  a  suggestion  of  either  ancestral  worth 
or  native  resourcefulness. 


MAY  DAY  75 

His  companion  was  swart  and  bandy-legged,  with 
rat-eyes  and  a  much-broken  hooked  nose.  His  defiant 
air  was  obviously  a  pretense,  a  weapon  of  protection 
borrowed  from  that  world  of  snarl  and  snap,  of  physi 
cal  bluff  and  physical  menace,  in  which  he  had  always 
lived.  His  name  was  Gus  Rose. 

Leaving  the  cafe  they  sauntered  down  Sixth  Avenue, 
wielding  toothpicks  with  great  gusto  and  complete  de 
tachment. 

" Where  to?"  asked  Rose,  in  a  tone  which  implied 
that  he  would  not  be  surprised  if  Key  suggested  the 
South  Sea  Islands. 

"What  you  say  we  see  if  we  can  getta  holda  some 
liquor?"  Prohibition  was  not  yet.  The  ginger  in  the 
suggestion  was  caused  by  the  law  forbidding  the  selling 
of  liquor  to  soldiers. 

Rose  agreed  enthusiastically. 

"I  got  an  idea,"  continued  Key,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  "I  got  a  brother  somewhere." 

" In  New  York?" 

"Yeah.  He's  an  old  fella."  He  meant  that  he  was 
an  elder  brother.  "He's  a  waiter  in  a  hash  joint." 

"Maybe  he  can  get  us  some." 

"I'll  say  he  can!" 

"B'lieve  me,  I'm  goin'  to  get  this  darn  uniform  off 
me  to-morra.  Never  get  me  in  it  again,  neither.  I'm 
goin'  to  get  me  some  regular  clothes." 

"Say,  maybe  I'm  not." 

As  their  combined  finances  were  something  less  than 
five  dollars,  this  intention  can  be  taken  largely  as  a 
pleasant  game  of  words,  harmless  and  consoling.  It 
seemed  to  please  both  of  them,  however,  for  they  rein 
forced  it  with  chuckling  and  mention  of  personages 
high  in  biblical  circles,  adding  such  further  emphasis 
as  "Oh,  boy!"  "You  know!"  and  "I'll  say  so!"  re 
peated  many  tunes  over. 


76  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

The  entire  mental  pabulum  of  these  two  men  con 
sisted  of  an  offended  nasal  comment  extended  through 
the  years  upon  the  institution — army,  business,  or  poor- 
house — which  kept  them  alive,  and  toward  their  im 
mediate  superior  in  that  institution.  Until  that  very 
morning  the  institution  had  been  the  "government" 
and  the  immediate  superior  had  been  the  "Cap'n" — 
from  these  two  they  had  glided  out  and  were  now  in  the 
vaguely  uncomfortable  state  before  they  should  adopt 
their  next  bondage.  They  were  uncertain,  resentful, 
and  somewhat  ill  at  ease.  This  they  hid  by  pretending 
an  elaborate  relief  at  being  out  of  the  army,  and  by 
assuring  each  other  that  military  discipline  should  never 
again  rule  their  stubborn,  liberty-loving  wills.  Yet, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  would  have  felt  more  at  home 
in  a  prison  than  in  this  new-found  and  unquestionable 
freedom. 

Suddenly  Key  increased  his  gait.  Rose,  looking  up 
and  following  his  glance,  discovered  a  crowd  that  was 
collecting  fifty  yards  down  the  street.  Key  chuckled 
and  began  to  run  in  the  direction  of  the  crowd;  Rose 
thereupon  also  chuckled  and  his  short  bandy  legs 
twinkled  beside  the  long,  awkward  strides  of  his  com 
panion. 

Reaching  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  they  immediately 
became  an  indistinguishable  part  of  it.  It  was  com 
posed  of  ragged  civilians  somewhat  the  worse  for  liquor, 
and  of  soldiers  representing  many  divisions  and  many 
stages  of  sobriety,  all  clustered  around  a  gesticulating 
little  Jew  with  long  black  whiskers,  who  was  waving  his 
arms  and  delivering  an  excited  but  succinct  harangue. 
Key  and  Rose,  having  wedged  themselves  into  the 
approximate  parquet,  scrutinized  him  with  acute  suspi 
cion,  as  his  words  penetrated  their  common  conscious 
ness. 


MAY  DAY  77 

" — What  have  you  got  outa  the  war  ?"  he  was  crying 
fiercely.  "Look  arounja,  look  arounja!  Are  you  rich  ? 
Have  you  got  a  lot  of  money  offered  you  ? — no;  you're 
lucky  if  you're  alive  and  got  both  your  legs;  you're 
lucky  if  you  came  back  an'  find  your  wife  ain't  gone 
off  with  some  other  fella  that  had  the  money  to  buy 
himself  out  of  the  war!  That's  when  you're  lucky! 
Who  got  anything  out  of  it  except  J.  P.  Morgan  an* 
JohnD.  Rockefeller?" 

At  this  point  the  little  Jew's  oration  was  interrupted 
by  the  hostile  impact  of  a  fist  upon  the  point  of  his 
bearded  chin  and  he  toppled  backward  to  a  sprawl  on 
the  pavement. 

"God  damn  Bolsheviki!"  cried  the  big  soldier- 
blacksmith  who  had  delivered  the  blow.  There  was  a 
rumble  of  approval,  the  crowd  closed  in  nearer. 

The  Jew  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  immediately  went 
down  again  before  a  half-dozen  reaching-in  fists.  This 
time  he  stayed  down,  breathing  heavily,  blood  oozing 
from  his  lip  where  it  was  cut  within  and  without. 

There  was  a  riot  of  voices,  and  in  a  minute  Rose  and 
Key  found  themselves  flowing  with  the  jumbled  crowd 
down  Sixth  Avenue  under  the  leadership  of  a  thin  civil 
ian  in  a  slouch  hat  and  the  brawny  soldier  who  had  sum 
marily  ended  the  oration.  The  crowd  had  marvellously 
swollen  to  formidable  proportions  and  a  stream  of  more 
non-committal  citizens  followed  it  along  the  sidewalks 
lending  their  moral  support  by  intermittent  huzzas. 

"Where  we  goin'?"  yelled  Key  to  the  man  nearest 
him. 

His  neighbor  pointed  up  to  the  leader  in  the  slouch 
hat. 

"That  guy  knows  where  there's  a  lot  of  'em !  We're 
goin'  to  show  'em!" 

"We're  goin'  to  show  'em!"  whispered  Key  delight- 


78  TALES   OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

edly  to  Rose,  who  repeated  the  phrase  rapturously  to 
a  man  on  the  other  side. 

Down  Sixth  Avenue  swept  the  procession,  joined  here 
and  there  by  soldiers  and  marines,  and  now  and  then  by 
civilians,  who  came  up  with  the  inevitable  cry  that 
they  were  just  out  of  the  army  themselves,  as  if  present 
ing  it  as  a  card  of  admission  to  a  newly  formed  Sporting 
and  Amusement  Club. 

Then  the  procession  swerved  down  a  cross  street  and 
headed  for  Fifth  Avenue  and  the  word  filtered  here  and 
there  that  they  were  bound  for  a  Red  meeting  at  Tolli- 
ver  Hall. 

"Where  is  it?" 

The  question  went  up  the  line  and  a  moment  later 
the  answer  floated  back.  Tolliver  Hall  was  down  on 
Tenth  Street.  There  was  a  bunch  of  other  sojers  who 
was  goin'  to  break  it  up  and  was  down  there  now ! 

But  Tenth  Street  had  a  faraway  sound  and  at  the 
word  a  general  groan  went  up  and  a  score  of  the  pro 
cession  dropped  out.  Among  these  were  Rose  and  Key, 
who  slowed  down  to  a  saunter  and  let  the  more  enthusi 
astic  sweep  on  by. 

"I'd  rather  get  some  liquor,"  said  Key  as  they  halted 
and  made  their  way  to  the  sidewalk  amid  cries  of  "Shell 
hole!"  and  "Quitters!" 

"Does  your  brother  work  around  here?"  asked  Rose, 
assuming  the  air  of  one  passing  from  the  superficial  to 
the  eternal. 

"He  oughta,"  replied  Key.  "I  ain't  seen  him  for 
a  coupla  years.  I  been  out  to  Pennsylvania  since. 
Maybe  he  don't  work  at  night  anyhow.  It's  right  along 
here.  He  can  get  us  some  o'right  if  he  ain't  gone." 

They  found  the  place  after  a  few  minutes'  patrol  of 
the  street — a  shoddy  tablecloth  restaurant  between  Fifth 
Avenue  and  Broadway.  Here  Key  went  inside  to  inquire 


MAY  DAY  79 

for  his  brother  George,  while  Rose  waited  on  the  side 
walk. 

"He  ain't  here  no  more,"  said  Key  emerging.  "He's 
a  waiter  up  to  Delmonico's." 

Rose  nodded  wisely,  as  if  he'd  expected  as  much.  One 
should  not  be  surprised  at  a  capable  man  changing  jobs 
occasionally.  He  knew  a  waiter  once — there  ensued  a 
long  conversation  as  they  walked  as  to  whether  waiters 
made  more  in  actual  wages  than  in  tips — it  was  decided 
that  it  depended  on  the  social  tone  of  the  joint  wherein 
the  waiter  labored.  After  having  given  each  other 
vivid  pictures  of  millionaires  dining  at  Delmonico's 
and  throwing  away  fifty-dollar  bills  after  their  first 
quart  of  champagne,  both  men  thought  privately  of 
becoming  waiters.  In  fact,  Key's  narrow  brow  was  se 
creting  a  resolution  to  ask  his  brother  to  get  him  a 
job. 

"A  waiter  can  drink  up  all  the  champagne  those 
fellas  leave  in  bottles/'  suggested  Rose  with  some  relish, 
and  then  added  as  an  afterthought,  "Oh,  boy!" 

By  the  time  they  reached  Delmonico's  it  was  half 
past  ten,  and  they  were  surprised  to  see  a  stream  of  taxis 
driving  up  to  the  door  one  after  the  other  and  emitting 
marvelous,  hatless  young  ladies,  each  one  attended  by  a 
stiff  young  gentleman  in  evening  clothes. 

"It's  a  party,"  said  Rose  with  some  awe.  "Maybe 
we  better  not  go  in.  He'll  be  busy." 

"No,  he  won't.    He'll  be  o'right." 

After  some  hesitation  they  entered  what  appeared  to 
them  to  be  the  least  elaborate  door  and,  indecision 
falling  upon  them  immediately,  stationed  themselves 
nervously  in  an  inconspicuous  corner  of  the  small  din 
ing-room  in  which  they  found  themselves.  They  took 
off  their  caps  and  held  them  in  their  hands.  A  cloud 
of  gloom  fell  upon  them  and  both  started  when  a 


8o  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

door  at  one  end  of  the  room  crashed  open,  emitting  a 
comet-like  waiter  who  streaked  across  the  floor  and 
vanished  through  another  door  on  the  other  side. 

There  had  been  three  of  these  lightning  passages  be 
fore  the  seekers  mustered  the  acumen  to  hail  a  waiter. 
He  turned,  looked  at  them  suspiciously,  and  then  ap 
proached  with  soft,  catlike  steps,  as  if  prepared  at  any 
moment  to  turn  and  flee. 

"Say,"  began  Key,  "say,  do  you  know  my  brother? 
He's  a  waiter  here." 

"His  name  is  Key,"  annotated  Rose. 

Yes,  the  waiter  knew  Key.  He  was  up-stairs,  he 
thought.  There  was  a  big  dance  going  on  in  the  main 
ballroom.  He'd  tell  him. 

Ten  minutes  later  George  Key  appeared  and  greeted 
his  brother  with  the  utmost  suspicion;  his  first  and 
most  natural  thought  being  that  he  was  going  to  be 
asked  for  money. 

George  was  tall  and  weak  chinned,  but  there  his  re 
semblance  to  his  brother  ceased.  The  waiter's  eyes 
were  not  dull,  they  were  alert  and  twinkling,  and  his 
manner  was  suave,  in-door,  and  faintly  superior.  They 
exchanged  formalities.  George  was  married  and  had 
three  children.  He  seemed  fairly  interested,  but  not 
impressed  by  the  news  that  Carrol  had  been  abroad  in 
the  army.  This  disappointed  Carrol. 

"George,"  said  the  younger  brother,  these  ameni 
ties  having  been  disposed  of,  "we  want  to  get  some 
booze,  and  they  won't  sell  us  none.  Can  you  get 
us  some  ? " 

George  considered. 

"Sure.  Maybe  I  can.  It  may  be  half  an  hour, 
though." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Carrol,  "we'll  wait." 

At  this  Rose  started  to  sit  down  in  a  convenient  chair, 
but  was  hailed  to  his  feet  by  the  indignant  George. 


MAY  DAY  81 

"Hey!  Watch  out,  you!  Can't  sit  down  here! 
This  room's  all  set  for  a  twelve  o'clock  banquet." 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  hurt  it,"  said  Rose  resentfully. 
"I  been  through  the  delouser." 

" Never  mind,"  said  George  sternly,  "if  the  head 
waiter  seen  me  here  talkin'  he'd  romp  all  over  me." 

"Oh." 

The  mention  of  the  head  waiter  was  full  explanation 
to  the  other  two;  they  fingered  their  overseas  caps  ner 
vously  and  waited  for  a  suggestion. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  George,  after  a  pause,  "I  got  a 
place  you  can  wait;  you  just  come  here  with  me." 

They  followed  him  out  the  far  door,  through  a  de 
serted  pantry  and  up  a  pair  of  dark  winding  stairs, 
emerging  finally  into  a  small  room  chiefly  furnished  by 
piles  of  pails  and  stacks  of  scrubbing  brushes,  and  il 
luminated  by  a  single  dim  electric  light.  There  he  left 
them,  after  soliciting  two  dollars  and  agreeing  to  re 
turn  in  half  an  hour  with  a  quart  of  whiskey. 

"George  is  makin'  money,  I  bet,"  said  Key  gloomily 
as  he  seated  himself  on  an  inverted  pail.  "I  bet  he's 
making  fifty  dollars  a  week." 

Rose  nodded  his  head  and  spat. 

"I  bet  he  is,  too." 

"What'd  he  say  the  dance  was  of?" 

"A  lot  of  college  fellas.    Yale  College." 

They  both  nodded  solemnly  at  each  other. 

"Wonder  where  that  crowda  sojers  is  now?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  know  that's  too  damn  long  to  walk 
for  me." 

"Me  too.    You  don't  catch  me  walkin'  that  far." 

Ten  minutes  later  restlessness  seized  them. 

"I'm  goin'  to  see  what's  out  here,"  said  Rose,  stepping 
cautiously  toward  the  other  door. 

It  was  a  swinging  door  of  green  baize  and  he  pushed 
it  open  a  cautious  inch. 


82  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"See  anything?" 

For  answer  Rose  drew  in  his  breath  sharply. 

"Doggone !    Here's  some  liquor  I'll  say !" 

"Liquor?" 

Key  joined  Rose  at  the  door,  and  looked  eagerly. 

"I'll  tell  the  world  that's  liquor,"  he  said,  after  a  mo 
ment  of  concentrated  gazing. 

It  was  a  room  about  twice  as  large  as  the  one  they 
were  in — and  in  it  was  prepared  a  radiant  feast  of  spirits. 
There  were  long  walls  of  alternating  bottles  set  along 
two  white  covered  tables;  whiskey,  gin,  brandy,  French 
and  Italian  vermouths,  and  orange  juice,  not  to  mention 
an  array  of  syphons  and  two  great  empty  punch  bowls. 
The  room  was  as  yet  uninhabited. 

"It's  for  this  dance  they're  just  starting,"  whispered 
Key;  "hear  the  violins  playin'?  Say,  boy,  I  wouldn't 
mind  havin'  a  dance." 

They  closed  the  door  softly  and  exchanged  a  glance  of 
mutual  comprehension.  There  was  no  need  of  feeling 
each  other  out. 

"I'd  like  to  get  my  hands  on  a  coupla  those  bottles," 
said  Rose  emphatically. 

"Me  too." 

"Do  you  suppose  we'd  get  seen  ?" 

Key  considered. 

"Maybe  we  better  wait  till  they  start  drinkin'  'em. 
They  got  'em  all  laid  out  now,  and  they  know  how  many 
of  them  there  are." 

They  debated  this  point  for  several  minutes.  Rose 
was  all  for  getting  his  hands  on  a  bottle  now  and  tuck 
ing  it  under  his  coat  before  any  one  came  into  the  room. 
Key,  however,  advocated  caution.  He  was  afraid  he 
might  get  his  brother  in  trouble.  If  they  waited  till 
some  of  the  bottles  were  opened  it'd  be  all  right  to  take 


MAY  DAY  83 

one,  and  everybody'd  think  it  was  one  of  the  college 
fellas. 

While  they  were  still  engaged  in  argument  George 
Key  hurried  through  the  room  and,  barely  grunting  at 
them,  disappeared  by  way  of  the  green  baize  door.  A 
minute  later  they  heard  several  corks  pop,  and  then  the 
sound  of  cracking  ice  and  splashing  liquid.  George  was 
mixing  the  punch. 

The  soldiers  exchanged  delighted  grins. 

"Oh,  boy!"  whispered  Rose. 

George  reappeared. 

"Just  keep  low,  boys,"  he  said  quickly.  "I'll  have 
your  stuff  for  you  in  five  minutes." 

He  disappeared  through  the  door  by  which  he  had  come. 

As  soon  as  his  footsteps  receded  down  the  stairs,  Rose, 
after  a  cautious  look,  darted  into  the  room  of  delights 
and  reappeared  with  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 

"Here's  what  I  say,"  he  said,  as  they  sat  radiantly 
digesting  their  first  drink,  "We'll  wait  till  he  comes  up, 
and  we'll  ask  him  if  we  can't  just  stay  here  and  drink 
what  he  brings  us — see.  We'll  tell  him  we  haven't  got 
any  place  to  drink  it — see.  Then  we  can  sneak  in 
there  whenever  there  ain't  nobody  in  that  there  room 
and  tuck  a  bottle  under  our  coats.  We'll  have  enough 
to  last  us  a  coupla  days — see  ?" 

"Sure,"  agreed  Rose  enthusiastically.  "Oh,  boy! 
And  if  we  want  to  we  can  sell  it  to  sojers  any  time  we 
want  to." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment  thinking  rosily  of 
this  idea.  Then  Key  reached  up  and  unhooked  the 
collar  of  his  O.  D.  coat. 

"It's  hot  in  here,  ain't  it?" 

Rose  agreed  earnestly. 

"Hot  as  hell." 


84  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

IV 

She  was  still  quite  angry  when  she  came  out  of  the 
dressing-room  and  crossed  the  intervening  parlor  of  po 
liteness  that  opened  onto  the  hall — angry  not  so  much 
at  the  actual  happening  which  was,  after  all,  the  merest 
commonplace  of  her  social  existence,  but  because  it 
had  occurred  on  this  particular  night.  She  had  no 
quarrel  with  herself.  She  had  acted  with  that  correct 
mixture  of  dignity  and  reticent  pity  which  she  al 
ways  employed.  She  had  succinctly  and  deftly  snubbed 
him. 

It  had  happened  when  their  taxi  was  leaving  the  Bilt- 
more — hadn't  gone  half  a  block.  He  had  lifted  his  right 
arm  awkwardly — she  was  on  his  right  side — and  at 
tempted  to  settle  it  snugly  around  the  crimson  fur- 
trimmed  opera  cloak  she  wore.  This  in  itself  had  been 
a  mistake.  It  was  inevitably  more  graceful  for  a  young 
man  attempting  to  embrace  a  young  lady  of  whose 
acquiescence  he  was  not  certain,  to  first  put  his  far  arm 
around  her.  It  avoided  that  awkward  movement  of 
raising  the  near  arm. 

His  second  faux  pas  was  unconscious.  She  had  spent 
the  afternoon  at  the  hairdresser's;  the  idea  of  any  ca 
lamity  overtaking  her  hair  was  extremely  repugnant — 
yet  as  Peter  made  his  unfortunate  attempt  the  point  of 
his  elbow  had  just  faintly  brushed  it.  That  was  his 
second  faux  pas.  Two  were  quite  enough. 

He  had  begun  to  murmur.  At  the  first  murmur  she 
had  decided  that  he  was  nothing  but  a  college  boy — 
Edith  was  twenty-two,  and  anyhow,  this  dance,  first 
of  its  kind  since  the  war,  was  reminding  her,  with  the 
accelerating  rhythm  of  its  associations,  of  something 
else — of  another  dance  and  another  man,  a  man  for 
whom  her  feelings  had  been  little  more  than  a  sad-eyed, 


MAY  DAY  85 

adolescent  mooniness.  Edith  Bradin  was  falling  in 
love  with  her  recollection  of  Gordon  Sterrett. 

So  she  came  out  of  the  dressing-room  at  Delmonico's 
and  stood  for  a  second  in  the  doorway  looking  over  the 
shoulders  of  a  black  dress  in  front  of  her  at  the  groups 
of  Yale  men  who  flitted  like  dignified  black  moths 
around  the  head  of  the  stairs.  From  the  room  she  had 
left  drifted  out  the  heavy  fragrance  left  by  the  passage 
to  and  fro  of  many  scented  young  beauties — rich  per 
fumes  and  the  fragile  memory-laden  dust  of  fragrant 
powders.  This  odor  drifting  out  acquired  the  tang  of 
cigarette  smoke  in  the  hall,  and  then  settled  sensuously 
down  the  stairs  and  permeated  the  ballroom  where  the 
Gamma  Psi  dance  was  to  be  held.  It  was  an  odor  she 
knew  well,  exciting,  stimulating,  restlessly  sweet — the 
odor  of  a  fashionable  dance. 

She  thought  of  her  own  appearance.  Her  bare  arms 
and  shoulders  were  powdered  to  a  creamy  white.  She 
knew  they  looked  very  soft  and  would  gleam  like  milk 
against  the  black  backs  that  were  to  silhouette  them  to 
night.  The  hairdressing  had  been  a  success;  her  red 
dish  mass  of  hair  was  piled  and  crushed  and  creased  to 
an  arrogant  marvel  of  mobile  curves.  Her  lips  were 
finely  made  of  deep  carmine;  the  irises  of  her  eyes  were 
delicate,  breakable  blue,  like  china  eyes.  She  was  a 
complete,  infinitely  delicate,  quite  perfect  thing  of 
beauty,  flowing  in  an  even  line  from  a  complex  coiffure 
to  two  small  slim  feet. 

She  thought  of  what  she  would  say  to-night  at  this 
revel,  faintly  prestiged  already  by  the  sounds  of  high  and 
low  laughter  and  slippered  footsteps,  and  movements  of 
couples  up  and  down  the  stairs.  She  would  talk  the 
language  she  had  talked  for  many  years — her  line — made 
up  of  the  current  expressions,  bits  of  journalese  and  col 
lege  slang  strung  together  into  an  intrinsic  whole,  care- 


86  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

less,  faintly  provocative,  delicately  sentimental.  She 
smiled  faintly  as  she  heard  a  girl  sitting  on  the  stairs 
near  her  say:  "You  don't  know  the  half  of  it,  dearie!" 

And  as  she  smiled  her  anger  melted  for  a  moment, 
and  closing  her  eyes  she  drew  in  a  deep  breath  of  plea 
sure.  She  dropped  her  arms  to  her  side  until  they  were 
faintly  touching  the  sleek  sheath  that  covered  and  sug 
gested  her  figure.  She  had  never  felt  her  own  softness 
so  much  nor  so  enjoyed  the  whiteness  of  her  own  arms. 

"I  smell  sweet,"  she  said  to  herself  simply,  and  then 
came  another  thought — "I'm  made  for  love." 

She  liked  the  sound  of  this  and  thought  it  again;  then 
in  inevitable  succession  came  her  new-born  riot  of  dreams 
about  Gordon.  The  twist  of  her  imagination  which,  two 
months  before ,  had  disclosed  to  her  her  unguessed 
desire  to  see  him  again,  seemed  now  to  have  been  leading 
up  to  this  dance,  this  hour. 

For  all  her  sleek  beauty,  Edith  was  a  grave,  slow- 
thinking  girl.  There  was  a  streak  in  her  of  that  same 
desire  to  ponder,  of  that  adolescent  idealism  that  had 
turned  her  brother  socialist  and  pacifist.  Henry  Bradin 
had  left  Cornell,  where  he  had  been  an  instructor  in 
economics,  and  had  come  to  New  York  to  pour  the  latest 
cures  for  incurable  evils  into  the  columns  of  a  radical 
weekly  newspaper. 

Edith,  less  fatuously,  would  have  been  content  to  cure 
Gordon  Sterrett.  There  was  a  quality  of  weakness  in 
Gordon  that  she  wanted  to  take  care  of;  there  was  a 
helplessness  in  him  that  she  wanted  to  protect.  And 
she  wanted  someone  she  had  known  a  long  while,  some 
one  who  had  loved  her  a  long  while.  She  was  a  little 
tired;  she  wanted  to  get  married.  Out  of  a  pile  of  let 
ters,  half  a  dozen  pictures  and  as  many  memories,  and 
this  weariness,  she  had  decided  that  next  time  she  saw 
Gordon  their  relations  were  going  to  be  changed.  She 


MAY  DAY  87 

would  say  something  that  would  change  them.  There 
was  this  evening.  This  was  her  evening.  All  evenings 
were  her  evenings. 

Then  her  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a  solemn 
undergraduate  with  a  hurt  look  and  an  air  of  strained 
formality  who  presented  himself  before  her  and  bowed 
unusually  low.  It  was  the  man  she  had  come  with, 
Peter  Himmel.  He  was  tall  and  humorous,  with  horned- 
rimmed  glasses  and  an  air  of  attractive  whimsicality. 
She  suddenly  rather  disliked  him — probably  because  he 
had  not  succeeded  in  kissing  her. 

"Well,"  she  began,  "are  you  still  furious  at  me?" 

"Not  at  all." 

She  stepped  forward  and  took  his  arm. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  softly.  "I  don't  know  why  I 
snapped  out  that  way.  I'm  in  a  bum  humor  to-night 
forborne  strange  reason.  I'm  sorry." 

"S'all  right,"  he  mumbled,  "don't  mention  it." 

He  felt  disagreeably  embarrassed.  Was  she  rubbing 
in  the  fact  of  his  late  failure  ? 

"It  was  a  mistake,"  she  continued,  on  the  same  con 
sciously  gentle  key.  "We'll  both  forget  it."  For  this 
he  hated  her. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  drifted  out  on  the  floor  while 
the  dozen  swaying,  sighing  members  of  the  specially 
hired  jazz  orchestra  informed  the  crowded  ballroom 
that  "if  a  saxophone  and  me  are  left  alone  why  then  two 
is  com-pan-ee ! " 

A  man  with  a  mustache  cut  in. 

"Hello,"  he  began  reprovingly.  "You  don't  remem 
ber  me." 

"I  can't  just  think  of  your  name,"  she  said  lightly— 
"and  I  know  you  so  well." 

"I  met  you  up  at—  His  voice  trailed  disconso 
lately  off  as  a  man  with  very  fair  hair  cut  in.  Edith 


88  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

murmured  a  conventional  "Thanks,  loads — cut  in  later," 
to  the  inconnu. 

The  very  fair  man  insisted  on  shaking  hands  enthusi 
astically.  She  placed  him  as  one  of  the  numerous  Jims 
of  her  acquaintance — last  name  a  mystery.  She  re 
membered  even  that  he  had  a  peculiar  rhythm  in  danc 
ing  and  found  as  they  started  that  she  was  right. 

"Going  to  be  here  long?"  he  breathed  confidentially. 

She  leaned  back  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"Couple  of  weeks." 

"Where  are  you?" 

"Biltmore.     Call  me  up  some  day." 

"I  mean  it,"  he  assured  her.  "I  will.  Well  go  to 
tea." 

"So  do  I— Do." 

A  dark  man  cut  in  with  intense  formality. 

"You  don't  remember  me,  do  you  ?"  he  said  gravely. 

"I  should  say  I  do.    Your  name's  Harlan." 

"No-ope.     Barlow." 

"Well,  I  knew  there  were  two  syllables  anyway. 
You're  the  boy  that  played  the  ukulele  so  well  up  at 
Howard  Marshall's  house  party. 

"I  played— but  not— 

A  man  with  prominent  teeth  cut  in.  Edith  inhaled 
a  slight  cloud  of  whiskey.  She  liked  men  to  have  had 
something  to  drink;  they  were  so  much  more  cheerful, 
and  appreciative  and  complimentary — much  easier  to 
talk  to. 

"My  name's  Dean,  Philip  Dean,"  he  said  cheer 
fully.  "You  don't  remember  me,  I  know,  but  you  used 
to  come  up  to  New  Haven  with  a  fellow  I  roomed  with 
senior  year,  Gordon  Sterrett." 

Edith  looked  up  quickly. 

"Yes,  I  went  up  with  him  twice — to  the  Pump  and 
Slipper  and  the  Junior  prom." 


MAY  DAY  89 

"You've  seen  him,  of  course,"  said  Dean  carelessly. 
"He's  here  to-night.  I  saw  him  just  a  minute  ago." 

Edith  started.  Yet  she  had  felt  quite  sure  he  would 
be  here. 

"Why,  no,  I  haven't " 

A  fat  man  with  red  hair  cut  in. 

"Hello,  Edith,"  he  began. 

"Why— heUo  there- 
She  slipped,  stumbled  lightly. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  she  murmured  mechanically. 

She  had  seen  Gordon — Gordon  very  white  and  list 
less,  leaning  against  the  side  of  a  doorway,  smoking  and 
looking  into  the  ballroom.  Edith  could  see  that  his 
face  was  thin  and  wan — that  the  hand  he  raised  to 
his  lips  with  a  cigarette  was  trembling.  They  were 
dancing  quite  close  to  him  now. 

" — They  invite  so  darn  many  extra  fellas  that  you — 
the  short  man  was  saying. 

"Hello,  Gordon,"  called  Edith  over  her  partner's 
shoulder.  Her  heart  was  pounding  wildly. 

His  large  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on  her.  He  took  a 
step  in  her  direction.  Her  partner  turned  her  away — 
she  heard  his  voice  bleating — 

" — but  half  the  stags  get  lit  and  leave  before  long, 
so " 

Then  a  low  tone  at  her  side. 

"May  I,  please?" 

She  was  dancing  suddenly  with  Gordon;  one  of  his 
arms  was  around  her;  she  felt  it  tighten  spasmodically; 
felt  his  hand  on  her  back  with  the  fingers  spread.  Her 
hand  holding  the  little  lace  handkerchief  was  crushed 
in  his. 

"Why  Gordon,"  she  began  breathlessly. 

"Hello,  Edith." 

She  slipped  again — was  tossed  forward  by  her  recov- 


90  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

ery  until  her  face  touched  the  black  cloth  of  his  dinner 
coat.  She  loved  him — she  knew  she  loved  him — then 
for  a  minute  there  was  silence  while  a  strange  feeling 
of  uneasiness  crept  over  her.  Something  was  wrong. 

Of  a  sudden  her  heart  wrenched,  and  turned  over  as 
she  realized  what  it  was.  He  was  pitiful  and  wretched, 
a  little  drunk,  and  miserably  tired. 

"Oh "  she  cried  involuntarily. 

His  eyes  looked  down  at  her.  She  saw  suddenly  that 
they  were  blood-streaked  and  rolling  uncontrollably. 

"Gordon,"  she  murmured,  "we'll  sit  down;  I  want  to 
sit  down." 

They  were  nearly  in  mid-floor,  but  she  had  seen  two 
men  start  toward  her  from  opposite  sides  of  the  room, 
so  she  halted,  seized  Gordon's  limp  hand  and  led  him 
bumping  through  the  crowd,  her  mouth  tight  shut,  her 
face  a  little  pale  under  her  rouge,  her  eyes  trembling 
with  tears. 

She  found  a  place  high  up  on  the  soft-carpeted  stairs, 
and  he  sat  down  heavily  beside  her. 

"Well,"  he  began,  staring  at  her  unsteadily,  "I  cer 
tainly  am  glad  to  see  you,  Edith." 

She  looked  at  him  without  answering.  The  effect  of 
this  on  her  was  immeasurable.  For  years  she  had  seen 
men  in  various  stages  of  intoxication,  from  uncles  all 
the  way  down  to  chauffeurs,  and  her  feelings  had  varied 
from  amusement  to  disgust,  but  here  for  the  first  time 
she  was  seized  with  a  new  feeling — an  unutterable 
horror. 

"Gordon,"  she  said  accusingly  and  almost  crying, 
"you  look  like  the  devil." 

He  nodded.     "I've  had  trouble,  Edith." 

"Trouble?" 

"All  sorts  of  trouble.  Don't  you  say  anything  to  the 
family,  but  I'm  all  gone  to  pieces.  I'm  a  mess,  Edith." 


MAY  DAY  91 

His  lower  lip  was  sagging.  He  seemed  scarcely  to  see 
her. 

"  Can't  you — can't  you,"  she  hesitated,  "  can't  you 
tell  me  about  it,  Gordon?  You  know  I'm  always  in 
terested  in  you." 

She  bit  her  lip — she  had  intended  to  say  something 
stronger,  but  found  at  the  end  that  she  couldn't  bring 
it  out. 

Gordon  shook  his  head  dully.  "I  can't  tell  you. 
You're  a  good  woman.  I  can't  tell  a  good  woman  the 
story." 

"Rot,"  she  said,  defiantly.  "I  think  it's  a  perfect 
insult  to  call  any  one  a  good  woman  in  that  way.  It's  a 
slam.  You've  been  drinking,  Gordon." 

"Thanks."  He  inclined  his  head  gravely.  "Thanks 
for  the  information." 

"Why  do  you  drink?" 

"Because  I'm  so  damn  miserable." 

"Do  you  think  drinking's  going  to  make  it  any  better  ? " 

"What  you  doing — trying  to  reform  me  ?" 

"No;  I'm  trying  to  help  you,  Gordon.  Can't  you 
tell  me  about  it?" 

"I'm  in  an  awful  mess.  Best  thing  you  can  do  is  to 
pretend  not  to  know  me." 

"Why,  Gordon?" 

"I'm  sorry  I  cut  in  on  you — its  unfair  to  you.  You're 
pure  woman — and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Here,  I'll  get 
some  one  else  to  dance  with  you." 

He  rose  clumsily  to  his  feet,  but  she  reached  up  and 
pulled  him  down  beside  her  on  the  stairs. 

"Here,  Gordon.  You're  ridiculous.  You're  hurting 
me.  You're  acting  like  a — like  a  crazy  man — 

"I  admit  it.  I'm  a  little  crazy.  Something's  wrong 
with  me,  Edith.  There's  something  left  me.  It 
doesn't  matter." 


92  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"It  does,  tell  me." 

"Just  that.  I  was  always  queer — little  bit  different 
from  other  boys.  All  right  in  college,  but  now  it's  all 
wrong.  Things  have  been  snapping  inside  me  for  four 
months  like  little  hooks  on  a  dress,  and  it's  about  to 
come  off  when  a  few  more  hooks  go.  I'm  very  gradu 
ally  going  loony." 

He  turned  his  eyes  full  on  her  and  began  to  laugh, 
and  she  shrank  away  from  him. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Just  me,"  he  repeated.  "I'm  going  loony.  This 
whole  place  is  like  a  dream  to  me — this  Delmonico's " 

As  he  talked  she  saw  he  had  changed  utterly.  He 
wasn't  at  all  light  and  gay  and  careless — a  great  leth 
argy  and  discouragement  had  come  over  him.  Re- 
l  vulsion  seized  her,  followed  by  a  faint,  surprising  bore- 
Jdom.  His  voice  seemed  to  come  out  of  a  great  void. 

"Edith,"  he  said,  "I  used  to  think  I  was  clever, 
talented,  an  artist.  Now  I  know  I'm  nothing. 
Can't  draw,  Edith.  Don't  know  why  I'm  telling  you 
this." 

She  nodded  absently. 

"I  can't  draw,  I  can't  do  anything.  I'm  poor  as  a 
church  mouse."  He  laughed,  bitterly  and  rather  too 
loud.  "I've  become  a  damn  beggar,  a  leech  on  my 
friends.  I'm  a  failure.  I'm  poor  as  hell." 

Her  distaste  was  growing.  She  barely  nodded  this 
time,  waiting  for  her  first  possible  cue  to  rise. 

Suddenly  Gordon's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Edith/'  he  said,  turning  to  her  with  what  was  evi 
dently  a  strong  effort  at  self-control,  "I  can't  tell  you 
what  it  means  to  me  to  know  there's  one  person  left 
who's  interested  in  me." 

He  reached  out  and  patted  her  hand,  and  involun 
tarily  she  drew  it  away. 


MAY  DAY  93 

"It's  mighty  fine  of  you,"  he  repeated. 

"Well/*  she  said  slowly,  looking  him  in  the  eye, 
"any  one's  always  glad  to  see  an  old  friend — but  I'm 
sorry  to  see  you  like  this,  Gordon." 

There  was  a  pause  while  they  looked  at  each  other, 
and  the  momentary  eagerness  in  his  eyes  wavered.  She 
rose  and  stood  looking  at  him,  her  face  quite  expression 
less. 

"Shall  we  dance?"  she  suggested,  coolly. 

— Love  is  fragile — she  was  thinking — but  perhaps  the 
pieces  are  saved,  the  things  that  hovered  on  lips,  that 
might  have  been  said.  The  new  love  words,  the  tender 
nesses  learned,  are  treasured  up  for  the  next  lover. 

V 

Peter  Himmel,  escort  to  the  lovely  Edith,  was  unac 
customed  to  being  snubbed;  having  been  snubbed,  he 
was  hurt  and  embarrassed,  and  ashamed  of  himself.  For 
a  matter  of  two  months  he  had  been  on  special  de 
livery  terms  with  Edith  Bradin,  and  knowing  that  the 
one  excuse  and  explanation  of  the  special  delivery  letter 
is  its  value  in  sentimental  correspondence,  he  had  be 
lieved  himself  quite  sure  of  his  ground.  He  searched 
in  vain  for  any  reason  why  she  should  have  taken  this 
attitude  in  the  matter  of  a  simple  kiss. 

Therefore  when  he  was  cut  in  on  by  the  man  with  the 
mustache  he  went  out  into  the  hall  and,  making  up  a 
sentence,  said  it  over  to  himself  several  times.  Con 
siderably  deleted,  this  was  it: 

"Well,  if  any  girl  ever  led  a  man  on  and  then  jolted 
him,  she  did — and  she  has  no  kick  coming  if  I  go  out  and 
get  beautifully  boiled." 

So  he  walked  through  the  supper  room  into  a  small 
room  adjoining  it,  which  he  had  located  earlier  in  the 


94  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

evening.  It  was  a  room  in  which  there  were  several 
large  bowls  of  punch  flanked  by  many  bottles.  He 
took  a  seat  beside  the  table  which  held  the  bottles. 

At  the  second  highball,  boredom,  disgust,  the  monot 
ony  of  time,  the  turbidity  of  events,  sank  into  a  vague 
background  before  which  glittering  cobwebs  formed. 
Things  became  reconciled  to  themselves,  things  lay 
quietly  on  their  shelves;  the  troubles  of  the  day  ar 
ranged  themselves  in  trim  formation  and  at  his  curt 
wish  of  dismissal,  marched  off  and  disappeared.  And 
with  the  departure  of  worry  came  brilliant,  permeating 
symbolism.  Edith  became  a  flighty,  negligible  girl, 
not  to  be  worried  over;  rather  to  be  laughed  at.  She 
fitted  like  a  figure  of  his  own  dream  into  the  surface 
world  forming  about  him.  He  himself  became  in  a 
measure  symbolic,  a  type  of  the  continent  bacchanal, 
the  brilliant  dreamer  at  play. 

Then  the  symbolic  mood  faded  and  as  he  sipped  his 
third  highball  his  imagination  yielded  to  the  warm  glow 
and  he  lapsed  into  a  state  similar  to  floating  on  his 
back  in  pleasant  water.  It  was  at  this  point  that  he 
noticed  that  a  green  baize  door  near  him  was  open 
about  two  inches,  and  that  through  the  aperture  a  pair 
of  eyes  were  watching  him  intently. 

"Hm,"  murmured  Peter  calmly. 

The  green  door  closed — and  then  opened  again — a 
bare  half  inch  this  time. 

"Peek-a-boo,"  murmured  Peter. 

The  door  remained  stationary  and  then  he  became 
aware  of  a  series  of  tense  intermittent  whispers. 

"One  guy." 

"What's  he  doin'?" 

"He's  sittin'  lookin'." 

"He  better  beat  it  off.  We  gotta  get  another  KT 
bottle." 


MAY  DAY  95 

Peter  listened  while  the  words  filtered  into  his  con 
sciousness. 

"Now  this,"  he  thought,  "is  most  remarkable." 

He  was  excited.  He  was  jubilant.  He  felt  that  he 
had  stumbled  upon  a  mystery.  Affecting  an  elaborate 
carelessness  he  arose  and  walked  around  the  table — 
then,  turning  quickly,  pulled  open  the  green  door,  pre 
cipitating  Private  Rose  into  the  room. 

Peter  bowed. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  said. 

Private  Rose  set  one  foot  slightly  in  front  of  the  other, 
poised  for  fight,  flight,  or  compromise. 

"How  do  you  do?"  repeated  Peter  politely. 

"I'm  o'right." 

"Can  I  offer  you  a  drink  ?" 

Private  Rose  looked  at  him  searchingly,  suspecting 
possible  sarcasm. 

"O'right,"  he  said  finally. 

Peter  indicated  a  chair. 

"Sit  down." 

"I  got  a  friend,"  said  Rose,  "I  got  a  friend  in  there." 
He  pointed  to  the  green  door. 

"By  all  means  let's  have  him  in." 

Peter  crossed  over,  opened  the  door  and  welcomed  in 
Private  Key,  very  suspicious  and  uncertain  and  guilty. 
Chairs  were  found  and  the  three  took  their  seats  around 
the  punch  bowl.  Peter  gave  them  each  a  highball  and 
offered  them  a  cigarette  from  his  case.  They  accepted 
both  with  some  diffidence. 

"Now,"  continued  Peter  easily,  "may  I  ask  why  you 
gentlemen  prefer  to  lounge  away  your  leisure  hours  in  a 
room  which  is  chiefly  furnished,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  with 
scrubbing  brushes.  And  when  the  human  race  has  pro 
gressed  to  the  stage  where  seventeen  thousand  chairs 
are  manufactured  on  every  day  except  Sunday—  '  he 


96  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

paused.  Rose  and  Key  regarded  him  vacantly.  "Will 
you  tell  me,"  went  on  Peter,  "why  you  choose  to  rest 
yourselves  on  articles  intended  for  the  transportation 
of  water  from  one  place  to  another?" 

At  this  point  Rose  contributed  a  grunt  to  the  con 
versation. 

"And  lastly,"  finished  Peter,  "will  you  tell  me  why, 
when  you  are  in  a  building  beautifully  hung  with  enor 
mous  candelabra,  you  prefer  to  spend  these  evening 
hours  under  one  anemic  electric  light?" 

Rose  looked  at  Key;  Key  looked  at  Rose.  They 
laughed;  they  laughed  uproariously;  they  found  it  was 
impossible  to  look  at  each  other  without  laughing. 
But  they  were  not  laughing  with  this  man — they  were 
laughing  at  him.  To  them  a  man  who  talked  after  this 
fashion  was  either  raving  drunk  or  raving  crazy. 

"You  are  Yale  men,  I  presume,"  said  Peter,  finishing 
his  highball  and  preparing  another. 

They  laughed  again. 

"Na-ah." 

"  So  ?  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  be  members  of 
that  lowly  section  of  the  university  known  as  the  Shef 
field  Scientific  School." 

"Na-ah." 

"Hm.  Well,  that's  too  bad.  No  doubt  you  are 
Harvard  men,  anxious  to  preserve  your  incognito  in 
this — this  paradise  of  violet  blue,  as  the  newspapers 
say." 

"Na-ah,"  said  Key  scornfully,  "we  was  just  waitin' 
for  somebody." 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Peter,  rising  and  filling  their  glasses, 
"very  interestin'.  Had  a  date  with  a  scrublady,  eh  ?" 

They  both  denied  this  indignantly. 

"It's  all  right,"  Peter  reassured  them,  "don't  apolo 
gize.  A  scrublady's  as  good  as  any  lady  in  the  world. 


MAY  DAY  97 

Kipling  says  'Any  lady  and  Judy  O'Grady  under  the 
skin/" 

"Sure,"  said  Key,  winking  broadly  at  Rose. 

"My  case,  for  instance,"  continued  Peter,  finishing 
his  glass.  "I  got  a  girl  up  here  that's  spoiled.  Spoildest 
darn  girl  I  ever  saw.  Refused  to  kiss  me;  no  reason 
whatsoever.  Led  me  on  deliberately  to  think  sure  I 
want  to  kiss  you  and  then  plunk!  Threw  me  over! 
What's  the  younger  generation  comin'  to  ?  " 

"Say  tha's  hard  luck,"  said  Key— "that's  awful  hard 
luck." 

"Oh,  boy!  "said  Rose. 

"Have  another?"  said  Peter. 

"We  got  in  a  sort  of  fight  for  a  while,"  said  Key  after 
a  pause,  "but  it  was  too  far  away." 

"A  fight?— tha's  stuff!"  said  Peter,  seating  himself 
unsteadily.  "Fight  'em  all!  I  was  in  the  army." 

"This  was  with  a  Bolshevik  fella." 

"Tha's  stuff!"  exclaimed  Peter,  enthusiastic. 
"That's  what  I  say!  Kill  the  Bolshevik!  Extermi 
nate  'em!" 

"We're  Americuns,"  said  Rose,  implying  a  sturdy, 
defiant  patriotism. 

"Sure,"  said  Peter.  "Greatest  race  in  the  world! 
We're  all  Americuns!  Have  another." 

They  had  another. 

VI 

At  one  o'clock  a  special  orchestra,  special  even  in  a 
day  of  special  orchestras,  arrived  at  Delmonico's,  and 
its  members,  seating  themselves  arrogantly  around  the 
piano,  took  up  the  burden  of  providing  music  for  the 
Gamma  Psi  Fraternity.  They  were  headed  by  a  famous 
flute-player,  distinguished  throughout  New  York  for 
his  feat  of  standing  on  his  head  and  shimmying  with 


98  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

his  shoulders  while  he  played  the  latest  jazz  on  his 
flute.  During  his  performance  the  lights  were  extin 
guished  except  for  the  spotlight  on  the  flute-player  and 
another  roving  beam  that  threw  flickering  shadows  and 
changing  kaleidoscopic  colors  over  the  massed  dancers. 

Edith  had  danced  herself  into  that  tired,  dreamy 
state  habitual  only  with  debutantes,  a  state  equivalent 
to  the  glow  of  a  noble  soul  after  several  long  highballs. 
Her  mind  floated  vaguely  on  the  bosom  of  her  music; 
her  partners  changed  with  the  unreality  of  phantoms 
under  the  colorful  shifting  dusk,  and  to  her  present 
coma  it  seemed  as  if  days  had  passed  since  the  dance 
began.  She  had  talked  on  many  fragmentary  subjects 
with  many  men.  She  had  been  kissed  once  and  made 
love  to  six  times.  Earlier  in  the  evening  different  under 
graduates  had  danced  with  her,  but  now,  like  all  the 
more  popular  girls  there,  she  had  her  own  entourage — 
that  is,  half  a  dozen  gallants  had  singled  her  out  or 
were  alternating  her  charms  with  those  of  some  other 
chosen  beauty;  they  cut  in  on  her  in  regular,  inevitable 
succession. 

Several  times  she  had  seen  Gordon — he  had  been  sit 
ting  a  long  time  on  the  stairway  with  his  palm  to  his 
head,  his  dull  eyes  fixed  at  an  infinite  speck  on  the  floor 
before  him,  very  depressed,  he  looked,  and  quite  drunk — 
but  Edith  each  time  had  averted  her  glance  hurriedly. 
All  that  seemed  long  ago;  her  mind  was  passive  now, 
her  senses  were  lulled  to  trance-like  sleep;  only  her  feet 
danced  and  her  voice  talked  on  in  hazy  sentimental 
banter. 

But  Edith  was  not  nearly  so  tired  as  to  be  incapable 
of  moral  indignation  when  Peter  Himmel  cut  in  on  her, 
sublimely  and  happily  drunk.  She  gasped  and  looked 
up  at  him. 

"Why,  Peter!" 


MAY  DAY  99 

"I'm  a  liT  stewed,  Edith." 

"Why,  Peter,  you're  a  peach,  you  are!  Don't  you 
think  it's  a  bum  way  of  doing — when  you're  with  me  ?" 

Then  she  smiled  unwillingly,  for  he  was  looking  at 
her  with  owlish  sentimentality  varied  with  a  silly  spas 
modic  smile. 

"Darlin'  Edith,"  he  began  earnestly,  ayou  know  I 
love  you,  don't  you  ?" 

"You  tell  it  well." 

"I  love  you — and  I  merely  wanted  you  to  kiss  me," 
he  added  sadly. 

His  embarrassment,  his  shame,  were  both  gone.  She 
was  a  mos'  beautiful  girl  in  whole  worl'.  Mos'  beauti 
ful  eyes,  like  stars  above.  He  wanted  to  'pologize — 
firs',  for  presuming  try  to  kiss  her;  second,  for  drinking 
— but  he'd  been  so  discouraged  'cause  he  had  thought 
she  was  mad  at  him — 

The  red-fat  man  cut  in,  and  looking  up  at  Edith 
smiled  radiantly. 

"Did  you  bring  any  one  ?"  she  asked. 

No.    The  red-fat  man  was  a  stag. 

"Well,  would  you  mind — would  it  be  an  awful  bother 
for  you  to — to  take  me  home  to-night?"  (this  extreme 
diffidence  was  a  charming  affectation  on  Edith's  part- 
she  knew  that  the  red-fat  man  would  immediately  dis 
solve  into  a  paroxysm  of  delight). 

"Bother?  Why,  good  Lord,  I'd  be  darn  glad  to! 
You  know  I'd  be  darn  glad  to." 

"Thanks  loads!    You're  awfully  sweet." 

She  glanced  at  her  wrist-watch.  It  was  half-past  one. 
And,  as  she  said  "half-past  one"  to  herself,  it  floated 
vaguely  into  her  mind  that  her  brother  had  told  her  at 
luncheon  that  he  worked  in  the  office  of  his  newspaper 
until  after  one-thirty  every  evening. 

Edith  turned  suddenly  to  her  current  partner. 


ioo  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"What  street  is  Delmonico's  on,  anyway?" 

"Street  ?    Oh,  why  Fifth  Avenue,  of  course." 

"I  mean,  what  cross  street  ?" 

"Why— let's  see— it's  on  Forty-fourth  Street." 

This  verified  what  she  had  thought.  Henry's  office 
must  be  across  the  street  and  just  around  the  corner, 
and  it  occurred  to  her  immediately  that  she  might  slip 
over  for  a  moment  and  surprise  him,  float  in  on  him,  a 
shimmering  marvel  in  her  new  crimson  opera  cloak  and 
"cheer  him  up."  It  was  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  Edith 
revelled  in  doing — an  unconventional,  jaunty  thing. 
The  idea  reached  out  and  gripped  at  her  imagination — 
after  an  instant's  hesitation  she  had  decided. 

"My  hair  is  just  about  to  tumble  entirely  down," 
she  said  pleasantly  to  her  partner;  "would  you  mind 
if  I  go  and  fix  it?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"You're  a  peach." 

A  few  minutes  later,  wrapped  in  her  crimson  opera 
cloak,  she  flitted  down  a  side-stairs,  her  cheeks  glowing 
with  excitement  at  her  little  adventure.  She  ran  by  a 
couple  who  stood  at  the  door — a  weak-chinned  waiter 
and  an  over-rouged  young  lady,  in  hot  dispute — and 
opening  the  outer  door  stepped  into  the  warm  May 
night. 

VII 

The  over-rouged  young  lady  followed  her  with  a  brief, 
bitter  glance — then  turned  again  to  the  weak-chinned 
waiter  and  took  up  her  argument. 

"You  better  go  up  and  tell  him  I'm  here,"  she  said 
defiantly,  "or  I'll  go  up  myself." 

"No,  you  don't!"  said  George  sternly. 

The  girl  smiled  sardonically. 

"Oh,  I  don't,  don't  I  ?    Well,  let  me  tell  you  I  know 


MAY  DAY  101 

more  college  fellas  and  more  of  'em  know  me,  and  are 
glad  to  take  me  out  on  a  party,  than  you  ever  saw  in 
your  whole  life." 

"Maybe  so " 

"Maybe  so,"  she  interrupted.  "Oh,  it's  all  right  for 
any  of  'em  like  that  one  that  just  ran  out — God  knows 
where  she  went — it's  all  right  for  them  that  are  asked 
here  to  come  or  go  as  they  like — but  when  I  want  to  see 
a  friend  they  have  some  cheap,  ham-slinging,  bring-me- 
a-doughnut  waiter  to  stand  here  and  keep  me  out." 

"See  here,"  said  the  elder  Key  indignantly,  "I  can't 
lose  my  job.  Maybe  this  fella  you're  talkin'  about 
doesn't  want  to  see  you." 

"Oh,  he  wants  to  see  me  all  right." 

"Anyways,  how  could  I  find  him  in  all  that  crowd  ?" 

"Oh,  he'll  be  there,"  she  asserted  confidently.  "You 
just  ask  anybody  for  Gordon  Sterrett  and  they'll  point 
him  out  to  you.  They  all  know  each  other,  those  fellas." 

She  produced  a  mesh  bag,  and  taking  out  a  dollar 
bill  handed  it  to  George. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "here's  a  bribe.  You  find  him  and 
give  him  my  message.  You  tell  him  if  he  isn't  here  in 
five  minutes  I'm  coming  up." 

George  shook  his  head  pessimistically,  considered 
the  question  for  a  moment,  wavered  violently,  and  then 
withdrew. 

In  less  than  the  allotted  time  Gordon  came  down-stairs. 
He  was  drunker  than  he  had  been  earlier  in  the  evening 
and  in  a  different  way.  The  liquor  seemed  to  have 
hardened  on  him  like  a  crust.  He  was  heavy  and  lurch 
ing — almost  incoherent  when  he  talked. 

"'Lo,  Jewel,"  he  said  thickly.  "Came  right  away. 
Jewel,  I  couldn't  get  that  money.  Tried  my  best." 

"Money  nothing !"  she  snapped.  "You  haven't  been 
near  me  for  ten  days.  What's  the  matter  ? " 


io2  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

He  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"Been  very  low,  Jewel.     Been  sick." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  if  you  were  sick.  I  don't 
care  about  the  money  that  bad.  I  didn't  start  bother 
ing  you  about  it  at  all  until  you  began  neglecting  me." 

Again  he  shook  his  head. 

"Haven't  been  neglecting  you.     Not  at  all." 

"Haven't!  You  haven't  been  near  me  for  three 
weeks,  unless  you  been  so  drunk  you  didn't  know  what 
you  were  doing." 

"Been  sick,  Jewel,"  he  repeated,  turning  his  eyes 
upon  her  wearily. 

"You're  well  enough  to  come  and  play  with  your 
society  friends  here  all  right.  You  told  me  you'd  meet 
me  for  dinner,  and  you  said  you'd  have  some  money  for 
me.  You  didn't  even  bother  to  ring  me  up." 

"I  couldn't  get  any  money." 

"Haven't  I  just  been  saying  that  doesn't  matter? 
I  wanted  to  see  you,  Gordon,  but  you  seem  to  prefer 
your  somebody  else." 

He  denied  this  bitterly. 

"Then  get  your  hat  and  come  along,"  she  suggested. 

Gordon  hesitated — and  she  came  suddenly  close  to 
him  and  slipped  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"Come  on  with  me,  Gordon,"  she  said  in  a  half  whis 
per.  "We'll  go  over  to  Devineries'  and  have  a  drink, 
and  then  we  can  go  up  to  my  apartment." 

"I  can't,  Jewel  — 

"You  can,"  she  said  intensely. 

"I'm  sick  as  a  dog!" 

"Well,  then,  you  oughtn't  to  stay  here  and  dance." 

With  a  glance  around  him  in  which  relief  and  despair 
were  mingled,  Gordon  hesitated;  then  she  suddenly 
pulled  him  to  her  and  kissed  him  with  soft,  pulpy  lips. 

"All  right,"  he  said  heavily.     "I'll  get  my  hat. 


MAY  DAY  103 

VIII 

When  Edith  came  out  into  the  clear  blue  of  the  May 
night  she  found  the  Avenue  deserted.  The  windows  of 
the  big  shops  were  dark;  over  their  doors  were  drawn 
great  iron  masks  until  they  were  only  shadowy  tombs  of 
the  late  day's  splendor.  Glancing  down  toward  Forty- 
second  Street  she  saw  a  commingled  blur  of  lights  from 
the  all-night  restaurants.  Over  on  Sixth  Avenue  the 
elevated,  a  flare  of  fire,  roared  across  the  street  between 
the  glimmering  parallels  of  light  at  the  station  and 
streaked  along  into  the  crisp  dark.  But  at  Forty- 
fourth  Street  it  was  very  quiet. 

Pulling  her  cloak  close  about  her  Edith  darted  across 
the  Avenue,  She  started  nervously  as  a  solitary  man 
passed  her  and  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper — "Where  bound, 
kiddo  ?"  She  was  reminded  of  a  night  in  her  childhood 
when  she  had  walked  around  the  block  in  her  pajamas 
and  a  dog  had  howled  at  her  from  a  mystery-big  back 
yard. 

In  a  minute  she  had  reached  her  destination,  a  two- 
story,  comparatively  old  building  on  Forty-fourth,  in 
the  upper  window  of  which  she  thankfully  detected  a 
wisp  of  light.  It  was  bright  enough  outside  for  her  to 
make  out  the  sign  beside  the  window — the  New  York 
Trumpet.  She  stepped  inside  a  dark  hall  and  after  a 
second  saw  the  stairs  in  the  corner. 

Then  she  was  in  a  long,  low  room  furnished  with  many 
desks  and  hung  on  all  sides  with  file  copies  of  news 
papers.  There  were  only  two  occupants.  They  were 
sitting  at  different  ends  of  the  room,  each  wearing  a 
green  eye-shade  and  writing  by  a  solitary  desk  light. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  uncertainly  in  the  doorway, 
and  then  both  men  turned  around  simultaneously  and 
she  recognized  her  brother. 


104  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Why,  Edith!"  He  rose  quickly  and  approached 
her  in  surprise,  removing  his  eye-shade.  He  was  tall, 
lean,  and  dark,  with  black,  piercing  eyes  under  very  thick 
glasses.  They  were  far-away  eyes  that  seemed  always 
fixed  just  over  the  head  of  the  person  to  whom  he  was 
talking. 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  arms  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"What  is  it?"  he  repeated  in  some  alarm. 

"I  was  at  a  dance  across  at  Delmonico's,  Henry," 
she  said  excitedly,  "and  I  couldn't  resist  tearing  over 
to  see  you." 

"I'm  glad  you  did."  His  alertness  gave  way  quickly 
to  a  habitual  vagueness.  "You  oughtn't  to  be  out 
alone  at  night  though,  ought  you  ? " 

The  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  had  been  look 
ing  at  them  curiously,  but  at  Henry's  beckoning  gesture 
he  approached.  He  was  loosely  fat  with  little  twin 
kling  eyes,  and,  having  removed  his  collar  and  tie,  he  gave 
the  impression  of  a  Middle-Western  farmer  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon. 

"This  is  my  sister,"  said  Henry.  "She  dropped  in  to 
see  me." 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  the  fat  man,  smiling.  "My 
name's  Bartholomew,  Miss  Bradin.  I  know  your 
brother  has  forgotten  it  long  ago." 

Edith  laughed  politely. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "not  exactly  gorgeous  quarters 
we  have  here,  are  they  ? " 

Edith  looked  around  the  room. 

"They  seem  very  nice,"  she  replied.  "Where  do  you 
keep  the  bombs?" 

"The  bombs?"  repeated  Bartholomew,  laughing. 
"That's  pretty  good — the  bombs.  Did  you  hear  her, 
Henry  ?  She  wants  to  know  where  we  keep  the  bombs. 
Say,  that's  pretty  good." 

Edith    swung  herself  onto  a  vacant  desk    and    sat 


MAY  DAY  105 

dangling  her  feet  over  the  edge.  Her  brother  took  a 
seat  beside  her. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  absent-mindedly,  "how  do  you 
like  New  York  this  trip  ?" 

' '  Not  bad.  I'll  be  over  at  the  Biltmore  with  the  Hoyts 
until  Sunday.  Can't  you  come  to  luncheon  to-morrow  ? " 

He  thought  a  moment. 

"I'm  especially  busy,"  he  objected,  "and  I  hate  wo 
men  in  groups." 

"All  right,"  she  agreed,  unruffled.  "Let's  you  and 
me  have  luncheon  together." 

"Very  well." 

"I'll  call  for  you  at  twelve." 

Bartholomew  was  obviously  anxious  to  return  to  his 
desk,  but  apparently  considered  that  it  would  be  rude 
to  leave  without  some  parting  pleasantry. 

"Well" — he  began  awkwardly. 

They  both  turned  to  him. 

"Well,  we — we  had  an  exciting  time  earlier  in  the 
evening." 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances. 

"You  should  have  come  earlier,"  continued  Bar 
tholomew,  somewhat  encouraged.  "We  had  a  regular 
vaudeville." 

"Did  you  really?" 

"A  serenade,"  said  Henry.  "A  lot  of  soldiers 
gathered  down  there  in  the  street  and  began  to  yell 
at  the  sign." 

"Why?"  she  demanded. 

"Just  a  crowd,"  said  Henry,  abstractedly.  "All 
crowds  have  to  howl.  They  didn't  have  anybody  with 
much  initiative  in  the  lead,  or  they'd  probably  have 
forced  their  way  in  here  and  smashed  things  up." 

"Yes,"  said  Bartholomew,  turning  again  to  Edith, 
"you  should  have  been  here." 

He  seemed  to  consider  this  a  sufficient  cue  for  with- 


106  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

drawal,  for  he  turned  abruptly  and  went  back  to  his 
desk. 

"Are  the  soldiers  all  set  against  the  Socialists?"  de 
manded  Edith  of  her  brother.  "I  mean  do  they  at 
tack  you  violently  and  all  that  ? " 

Henry  replaced  his  eye-shade  and  yawned. 

"The  human  race  has  come  a  long  way,"  he  said 
casually,  "but  most  of  us  are  throw-backs;  the  soldiers 
don't  know  what  they  want,  or  what  they  hate,  or  what 
they  like.  They're  used  to  acting  in  large  bodies,  and 
they  seem  to  have  to  make  demonstrations.  So  it  hap 
pens  to  be  against  us.  There've  been  riots  all  over  the 
city  to-night.  It's  May  Day,  you  see." 

"Was  the  disturbance  here  pretty  serious?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  he  said  scornfully.  "About  twenty- 
five  of  them  stopped  in  the  street  about  nine  o'clock, 
and  began  to  bellow  at  the  moon." 

"Oh"-  She  changed  the  subject.  "You're  glad 
to  see  me,  Henry  ? " 

"Why,  sure." 

"You  don't  seem  to  be." 

"I  am." 

"I  suppose  you  think  I'm  a — a  waster.  Sort  of  the 
World's  Worst  Butterfly." 

Henry  laughed. 

"Not  at  all.  Have  a  good  time  while  you're  young. 
Why  ?  Do  I  seem  like  the  priggish  and  earnest  youth  ? " 

"No — "  She  paused,  " — but  somehow  I  began 
thinking  how  absolutely  different  the  party  I'm  on  is 
from — from  all  your  purposes.  It  seems  sort  of — of 
incongruous,  doesn't  it  ? — me  being  at  a  party  like  that, 
and  you  over  here  working  for  a  thing  that'll  make 
that  sort  of  party  impossible  ever  any  more,  if  your 
ideas  work." 

"I  don't  think  of  it  that  way.     You're  young,  and 


MAY  DAY  107 

you're  acting  just  as  you  were  brought  up  to  act.  Go 
ahead — have  a  good  time?" 

Her  feet,  which  had  been  idly  swinging,  stopped  and 
her  voice  dropped  a  note. 

"I  wish  you'd — you'd  come  back  to  Harrisburg  and 
have  a  good  time.  Do  you  feel  sure  that  you're  on  the 
right  track— 

"You're  wearing  beautiful  stockings,"  he  interrupted. 
"What  on  earth  are  they?" 

"They're  embroidered,"  she  replied,  glancing  down. 
"Aren't  they  cunning?"  She  raised  her  skirts  and 
uncovered  slim,  silk-sheathed  calves.  "Or  do  you  dis 
approve  of  silk  stockings  ? " 

He  seemed  slightly  exasperated,  bent  his  dark  eyes 
on  her  piercingly. 

"Are  you  trying  to  make  me  out  as  criticizing  you  in 
any  way,  Edith  ? " 

"Not  at  all " 

She  paused.  Bartholomew  had  uttered  a  grunt.  She 
turned  and  saw  that  he  had  left  his  desk  and  was  stand 
ing  at  the  window. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  Henry. 

"People,"  said  Bartholomew,  and  then  after  an  instant: 
"Whole  jam  of  them.  They're  coming  from  Sixth  Avenue." 

"People?" 

The  fat  man  pressed  his  nose  to  the  pane. 

"Soldiers,  by  God!"  he  said  emphatically.  "I  had 
an  idea  they'd  come  back." 

Edith  jumped  to  her  feet,  and  running  over  joined 
Bartholomew  at  the  window. 

"There's  a  lot  of  them!"  she  cried  excitedly.  "Come 
here,  Henry ! " 

Henry  readjusted  his  shade,  but  kept  his  seat. 

"Hadn't  we  better  turn  out  the  lights?"  suggested 
Bartholomew. 


io8  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"No.    They'll  go  away  in  a  minute." 

"  They're  not,"  said  Edith,  peering  from  the  window. 
"They're  not  even  thinking  of  going  away.  There's 
more  of  them  coming.  Look — there's  a  whole  crowd 
turning  the  corner  of  Sixth  Avenue." 

By  the  yellow  glow  and  blue  shadows  of  the  street 
lamp  she  could  see  that  the  sidewalk  was  crowded  with 
men.  They  were  mostly  in  uniform,  some  sober,  some 
enthusiastically  drunk,  and  over  the  whole  swept  an 
incoherent  clamor  and  shouting. 

Henry  rose,  and  going  to  the  window  exposed  himself 
as  a  long  silhouette  against  the  office  lights.  Imme 
diately  the  shouting  became  a  steady  yell,  and  a  rattling 
fusillade  of  small  missiles,  corners  of  tobacco  plugs, 
cigarette-boxes,  and  even  pennies  beat  against  the  win 
dow.  The  sounds  of  the  racket  now  began  floating  up 
the  stairs  as  the  folding  doors  revolved. 

"They're  coming  up!"  cried  Bartholomew. 

Edith  turned  anxiously  to  Henry. 

"They're  coming  up,  Henry." 

From  down-stairs  in  the  lower  hall  their  cries  were 
now  quite  audible. 

"—God  damn  Socialists!" 

"Pro-Germans !    Boche-lovers ! " 

"Second  floor,  front !    Come  on ! " 

"We'll  get  the  sons " 

The  next  five  minutes  passed  in  a  dream.  Edith  was 
conscious  that  the  clamor  burst  suddenly  upon  the  three 
of  them  like  a  cloud  of  rain,  that  there  was  a  thunder 
of  many  feet  on  the  stairs,  that  Henry  had  seized  her 
arm  and  drawn  her  back  toward  the  rear  of  the  office. 
Then  the  door  opened  and  an  overflow  of  men  were 
forced  into  the  room — not  the  leaders,  but  simply  those 
who  happened  to  be  in  front. 


MAY  DAY  109 

"Hello,  Bo! " 

" Up  late,  ain't  you?" 

"You  an'  your  girl.    Damn  you!" 

She  noticed  that  two  very  drunken  soldiers  had  been 
forced  to  the  front,  where  they  wobbled  fatuously — one 
of  them  was  short  and  dark,  the  other  was  tall  and 
weak  of  chin. 

Henry  stepped  forward  and  raised  his  hand. 

"Friends!  "he  said. 

The  clamor  faded  into  a  momentary  stillness,  punc 
tuated  with  mutterings. 

"Friends!"  he  repeated,  his  far-away  eyes  fixed  over 
the  heads  of  the  crowd,  "you're  injuring  no  one  but 
yourselves  by  breaking  in  here  to-night.  Do  we  look 
like  rich  men  ?  Do  we  look  like  Germans  ?  I  ask  you 
in  all  fairness 

"Pipe  down!" 

"Ill  say  you  do!" 

"Say,  who's  your  lady  friend,  buddy?" 

A  man  in  civilian  clothes,  who  had  been  pawing  over 
a  table,  suddenly  held  up  a  newspaper. 

"Here  it  is ! "  he  shouted.  "They  wanted  the  Germans 
to  win  the  war ! " 

A  new  overflow  from  the  stairs  was  shouldered  in  and 
of  a  sudden  the  room  was  full  of  men  all  closing  around 
the  pale  little  group  at  the  back.  Edith  saw  that  the 
tall  soldier  with  the  weak  chin  was  still  in  front.  The 
short  dark  one  had  disappeared. 

She  edged  slightly  backward,  stood  close  to  the  open 
window,  through  which  came  a  clear  breath  of  cool 
night  air. 

Then  the  room  was  a  riot.  She  realized  that  the  sol 
diers  were  surging  forward,  glimpsed  the  fat  man  swing 
ing  a  chair  over  his  head — instantly  the  lights  went  out, 


no  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

and  she  felt  the  push  of  warm  bodies  under  rough  cloth, 
and  her  ears  were  full  of  shouting  and  trampling  and 
hard  breathing. 

A  figure  flashed  by  her  out  of  nowhere,  tottered,  was 
edged  sideways,  and  of  a  sudden  disappeared  helplessly 
out  through  the  open  window  with  a  frightened,  frag 
mentary  cry  that  died  staccato  on  the  bosom  of  the 
clamor.  By  the  faint  light  streaming  from  the  build 
ing  backing  on  the  area  Edith  had  a  quick  impression 
that  it  had  been  the  tall  soldier  with  the  weak  chin. 

Anger  rose  astonishingly  in  her.  She  swung  her 
arms  wildly,  edged  blindly  toward  the  thickest  of  the 
scuffling.  She  heard  grunts,  curses,  the  muffled  impact 
of  fists. 

"Henry!"  she  caUed  frantically,  "Henry!" 

Then,  it  was  minutes  later,  she  felt  suddenly  that 
there  were  other  figures  in  the  room.  She  heard  a 
voice,  deep,  bullying,  authoritative;  she  saw  yellow 
rays  of  light  sweeping  here  and  there  in  the  fracas. 
The  cries  became  more  scattered.  The  scuffling  in 
creased  and  then  stopped. 

Suddenly  the  lights  were  on  and  the  room  was  full 
of  policemen,  clubbing  left  and  right.  The  deep  voice 
boomed  out: 

"Here  now !    Here  now !    Here  now ! " 

And  then: 

"Quiet  down  and  get  out !    Here  now !" 

The  room  seemed  to  empty  like  a  wash-bowl.  A 
policeman  fast-grappled  in  the  corner  released  his  hold 
on  his  soldier  antagonist  and  started  him  with  a  shove 
toward  the  door.  The  deep  voice  continued.  Edith  per 
ceived  now  that  it  came  from  a  bull-necked  police  cap 
tain  standing  near  the  door. 

"Here  now  !  This  is  no  way !  One  of  your  own  sojers 
got  shoved  out  of  the  back  window  an'  killed  hisself !" 


MAY  DAY  in 

"Henry!"  called  Edith,  "Henry!" 

She  beat  wildly  with  her  fists  on  the  back  of  the  man 
in  front  of  her;  she  brushed  between  two  others;  fought, 
shrieked,  and  beat  her  way  to  a  very  pale  figure  sitting 
on  the  floor  close  to  a  desk. 

"Henry,"  she  cried  passionately,  "what's  the  mat 
ter?  What's  the  matter?  Did  they  hurt  you  ?" 

His  eyes  were  shut.  He  groaned  and  then  looking  up 
said  disgustedly 

"They  broke  my  leg.     My  God,  the  fools !" 

"Here  now !"  called  the  police  captain.  "Here  now ! 
Here  now!" 

IX 

"Childs',  Fifty-ninth  Street,"  at  eight  o'clock  of  any 
morning-  differs  from  its  sisters  by  less  than  the  width 
of  their  marble  tables  or  the  degree  of  polish  on  the  fry 
ing-pans.  You  will  see  there  a  crowd  of  poor  people 
with  sleep  in  the  corners  of  their  eyes,  trying  to  look 
straight  before  them  at  their  food  so  as  not  to  see  the 
other  poor  people.  But  Childs',  Fifty-ninth,  four  hours 
earlier  is  quite  unlike  any  Childs'  restaurant  from  Port 
land,  Oregon,  to  Portland,  Maine.  Within  its  pale  but 
sanitary  walls  one  finds  a  noisy  medley  of  chorus  girls, 
college  boys,  debutantes,  rakes,  filles  de  joie — a  not  un 
representative  mixture  of  the  gayest  of  Broadway,  and 
even  of  Fifth  Avenue. 

In  the  early  morning  of  May  the  second  it  was  un 
usually  full.  Over  the  marble-topped  tables  were  bent 
the  excited  faces  of  flappers  whose  fathers  owned  in 
dividual  villages.  They  were  eating  buckwheat  cakes 
and  scrambled  eggs  with  relish  and  gusto,  an  accomplish 
ment  that  it  would  have  been  utterly  impossible  for 
them  to  repeat  in  the  same  place  four  hours  later. 

Almost  the  entire  crowd  were  from  the  Gamma  Psi 


ii2  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

dance  at  Delmonico's  except  for  several  chorus  girls 
from  a  midnight  revue  who  sat  at  a  side  table  and  wished 
they'd  taken  off  a  little  more  make-up  after  the  show. 
Here  and  there  a  drab,  mouse-like  figure,  desperately 
out  of  place,  watched  the  butterflies  with  a  weary, 
puzzled  curiosity.  But  the  drab  figure  was  the  excep 
tion.  This  was  the  morning  after  May  Day,  and  cele 
bration  was  still  in  the  air. 

Gus  Rose,  sober  but  a  little  dazed,  must  be  classed 
as  one  of  the  drab  figures.  How  he  had  got  himself  from 
Forty-fourth  Street  to  Fifty-ninth  Street  after  the  riot 
was  only  a  hazy  half-memory.  He  had  seen  the  body 
of  Carrol  Key  put  in  an  ambulance  and  driven  off,  and 
then  he  had  started  up  town  with  two  or  three  soldiers. 
Somewhere  between  Forty-fourth  Street  and  Fifty- 
ninth  Street  the  other  soldiers  had  met  some  women 
and  disappeared.  Rose  had  wandered  to  Columbus 
Circle  and  chosen  the  gleaming  lights  of  Child s7  to 
minister  to  his  craving  for  coffee  and  doughnuts.  He 
walked  in  and  sat  down. 

All  around  him  floated  airy,  inconsequential  chatter 
and  high-pitched  laughter.  At  first  he  failed  to  under 
stand,  but  after  a  puzzled  five  minutes  he  realized  that 
this  was  the  aftermath  of  some  gay  party.  Here  and 
there  a  restless,  hilarious  young  man  wandered  frater 
nally  and  familiarly  between  the  tables,  shaking  hands 
indiscriminately  and  pausing  occasionally  for  a  face 
tious  chat,  while  excited  waiters,  bearing  cakes  and  eggs 
aloft,  swore  at  him  silently,  and  bumped  him  out  of  the 
way.  To  Rose,  seated  at  the  most  inconspicuous  and 
least  crowded  table,  the  whole  scene  was  a  colorful  cir 
cus  of  beauty  and  riotous  pleasure. 

He  became  gradually  aware,  after  a  few  moments, 
that  the  couple  seated  diagonally  across  from  him,  with 
their  backs  to  the  crowd,  were  not  the  least  interesting 


MAY  DAY  113 

pair  in  the  room.  The  man  was  drunk.  He  wore  a 
dinner  coat  with  a  dishevelled  tie  and  shirt  swollen  by 
spillings  of  water  and  wine.  His  eyes,  dim  and  blood 
shot,  roved  unnaturally  from  side  to  side.  His  breath 
came  short  between  his  lips. 

"He's  been  on  a  spree!"  thought  Rose. 

The  woman  was  almost  if  not  quite  sober.  She  was 
pretty,  with  dark  eyes  and  feverish  high  color,  and  she 
kept  her  active  eyes  fixed  on  her  companion  with  the 
alertness  of  a  hawk.  From  time  to  time  she  would  lean 
and  whisper  intently  to  him,  and  he  would  answer  by 
inclining  his  head  heavily  or  by  a  particularly  ghoulish 
and  repellent  wink. 

Rose  scrutinized  them  dumbly  for  some  minutes, 
until  the  woman  gave  him  a  quick,  resentful  look;  then 
he  shifted  his  gaze  to  two  of  the  most  conspicuously 
hilarious  of  the  promenaders  who  were  on  a  protracted 
circuit  of  the  tables.  To  his  surprise  he  recognized  in 
one  of  them  the  young  man  by  whom  he  had  been  so 
ludicrously  entertained  at  Delmonico's.  This  started 
him  thinking  of  Key  with  a  vague  sentimentality,  not 
unmixed  with  awe.  Key  was  dead.  He  had  fallen 
thirty-five  feet  and  split  his  skull  like  a  cracked  cocoa- 
nut. 

"He  was  a  darn  good  guy,"  thought  Rose  mourn 
fully.  "He  was  a  darn  good  guy,  o'right.  That  was 
awful  hard  luck  about  him." 

The  two  promenaders  approached  and  started  down 
between  Rose's  table  and  the  next,  addressing  friends 
and  strangers  alike  with  jovial  familiarity.  Suddenly 
Rose  saw  the  fair-haired  one  with  the  prominent  teeth 
stop,  look  unsteadily  at  the  man  and  girl  opposite,  and 
then  begin  to  move  his  head  disapprovingly  from  side 
to  side. 

The  man  with  the  blood-shot  eyes  looked  up. 


ii4  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Gordy,"  said  the  promenader  with  the  prominent 
teeth,  "Gordy." 

"Hello,"  said  the  man  with  the  stained  shirt  thickly. 

Prominent  Teeth  shook  his  finger  pessimistically  at 
the  pair,  giving  the  woman  a  glance  of  aloof  condemna 
tion. 

"  What'd  I  tell  you  Gordy  ?" 

Gordon  stirred  in  his  seat. 

"Go  to  hell!  "he  said. 

Dean  continued  to  stand  there  shaking  his  finger. 
The  woman  began  to  get  angry. 

"You  go  way!"  she  cried  fiercely.  "You're  drunk, 
that's  what  you  are ! " 

"  So's  he,"  suggested  Dean,  staying  the  motion  of  his 
finger  and  pointing  it  at  Gordon. 

Peter  Himmel  ambled  up,  owlish  now  and  oratorically 
inclined. 

"Here  now,"  he  began  as  if  called  upon  to  deal  with 
some  petty  dispute  between  children.  "Wha's  all 
trouble?" 

"You  take  your  friend  away,"  said  Jewel  tartly. 
"He's  bothering  us." 

"What's  at?" 

"You  heard  me!"  she  said  shrilly.  "I  said  to  take 
your  drunken  friend  away." 

Her  rising  voice  rang  out  above  the  clatter  of  the  res 
taurant  and  a  waiter  came  hurrying  up. 

"You  gotta  be  more  quiet!" 

"That  fella's  drunk,"  she  cried.  "He's  insulting 
us." 

"Ah-ha,  Gordy,"  persisted  the  accused.  "What'd  I 
tell  you."  He  turned  to  the  waiter.  "Gordy  an'  I 
friends.  Been  tryin'  help  him,  haven't  I,  Gordy  ? " 

Gordy  looked  up. 

"Help  me?    Hell,  no!" 


MAY  DAY  115 

Jewel  rose  suddenly,  and  seizing  Gordon's  arm  assisted 
him  to  his  feet 

"Come  on,  Gordy !"  she  said,  leaning  toward  him  and 
speaking  in  a  half  whisper.  "  Let's  us  get  out  of  here. 
This  fella's  got  a  mean  drunk  on." 

Gordon  allowed  himself  to  be  urged  to  his  feet  and 
started  toward  the  door.  Jewel  turned  for  a  second  and 
addressed  the  provoker  of  their  flight. 

"I  know  all  about  you  I"  she  said  fiercely.  "Nice 
friend,  you  are,  I'll  say.  He  told  me  about  you." 

Then  she  seized  Gordon's  arm,  and  together  they 
made  their  way  through  the  curious  crowd,  paid  their 
check,  and  went  out. 

"You'll  have  to  sit  down,"  said  the  waiter  to  Peter 
after  they  had  gone. 

"What's  'at?    Sit  down?" 

"Yes— or  get  out." 

Peter  turned  to  Dean. 

"Come  on,"  he  suggested.  "Let's  beat  up  this 
waiter." 

"All  right." 

They  advanced  toward  him,  their  faces  grown  stern. 
The  waiter  retreated. 

Peter  suddenly  reached  over  to  a  plate  on  the  table 
beside  him  and  picking  up  a  handful  of  hash  tossed  it 
into  the  air.  It  descended  as  a  languid  parabola  in 
snowflake  effect  on  the  heads  of  those  near  by. 

"Hey!    Ease  up!" 

"Put  him  out!" 

"Sit  down,  Peter!" 

"Cut  out  that  stuff!" 

Peter  laughed  and  bowed. 

"Thank  you  for  your  kind  applause,  ladies  and  gents. 
If  some  one  will  lend  me  some  more  hash  and  a  tall  hat 
we  will  go  on  with  the  act." 


n6  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

The  bouncer  bustled  up. 

"You've  gotta  get  out!"  he  said  to  Peter. 

"Hell,  no!" 

"He's  my  friend !"  put  in  Dean  indignantly. 

A  crowd  of  waiters  were  gathering.     "Put  him  out !" 

"Better  go,  Peter." 

There  was  a  short  struggle  and  the  two  were  edged 
and  pushed  toward  the  door. 

"I  got  a  hat  and  a  coat  here !"  cried  Peter. 

"Well,  go  get  'em  and  be  spry  about  it !" 

The  bouncer  released  his  hold  on  Peter,  who,  adopt 
ing  a  ludicrous  air  of  extreme  cunning,  rushed  im 
mediately  around  to  the  other  table,  where  he  burst 
into  derisive  laughter  and  thumbed  his  nose  at  the  exas 
perated  waiters. 

"Think  I  just  better  wait  a  1'iP  longer/'  he  announced. 

The  chase  began.  Four  waiters  were  sent  around  one 
way  and  four  another.  Dean  caught  hold  of  two  of 
them  by  the  coat,  and  another  struggle  took  place  be 
fore  the  pursuit  of  Peter  could  be  resumed;  he  was 
finally  pinioned  after  overturning  a  sugar-bowl  and  sev 
eral  cups  of  coffee.  A  fresh  argument  ensued  at  the 
cashier's  desk,  where  Peter  attempted  to  buy  another 
dish  of  hash  to  take  with  him  and  throw  at  policemen. 

But  the  commotion  upon  his  exit  proper  was  dwarfed 
by  another  phenomenon  which  drew  admiring  glances 
and  a  prolonged  involuntary  "Oh-h-h!"  from  every 
person  in  the  restaurant. 

The  great  plate-glass  front  had  turned  to  a  deep 
creamy  blue,  the  color  of  a  Maxfield  Parrish  moonlight — 
a  blue  that  seemed  to  press  close  upon  the  pane  as  if  to 
crowd  its  way  into  the  restaurant.  Dawn  had  come  up 
in  Columbus  Circle,  magical,  breathless  dawn,  silhou 
etting  the  great  statue  of  the  immortal  Christopher,  and 
mingling  in  a  curious  and  uncanny  manner  with  the 
fading  yellow  electric  light  inside. 


MAY  DAY  117 


Mr.  In  and  Mr.  Out  are  not  listed  by  the  census-taker. 
You  will  search  for  them  in  vain  through  the  social 
register  or  the  births,  marriages,  and  deaths,  or  the 
grocer's  credit  list.  Oblivion  has  swallowed  them 
and  the  testimony  that  they  ever  existed  at  all  is  vague 
and  shadowy,  and  inadmissible  in  a  court  of  law.  Yet 
I  have  it  upon  the  best  authority  that  for  a  brief 
space  Mr.  In  and  Mr.  Out  lived,  breathed,  answered 
to  their  names  and  radiated  vivid  personalities  of  their 
own. 

During  the  brief  span  of  their  lives  they  walked  in 
their  native  garments  down  the  great  highway  of  a  great 
nation;  were  laughed  at,  sworn  at,  chased,  and  fled  from. 
Then  they  passed  and  were  heard  of  no  more. 

They  were  already  taking  form  dimly,  when  a  taxi- 
cab  with  the  top  open  breezed  down  Broadway  in  the 
faintest  glimmer  of  May  dawn.  In  this  car  sat  the  souls 
of  Mr.  In  and  Mr.  Out  discussing  with  amazement  the 
blue  light  that  had  so  precipitately  colored  the  sky  be 
hind  the  statue  of  Christopher  Columbus,  discussing 
with  bewilderment  the  old,  gray  faces  of  the  early  risers 
which  skimmed  palely  along  the  street  like  blown  bits  of 
paper  on  a  gray  lake.  They  were  agreed  on  all  things, 
from  the  absurdity  of  the  bouncer  in  Childs'  to  the  ab 
surdity  of  the  business  of  life.  They  were  dizzy  with 
the  extreme  maudlin  happiness  that  the  morning  had 
awakened  in  their  glowing  souls.  Indeed,  so  fresh  and 
vigorous  was  their  pleasure  in  living  that  they  felt  it 
should  be  expressed  by  loud  cries. 

"Ye-ow-ow!"  hooted  Peter,  making  a  megaphone 
with  his  hands — and  Dean  joined  in  with  a  call  that, 
though  equally  significant  and  symbolic,  derived  its 
resonance  from  its  very  inarticulateness. 

"Yo-ho!    Yea!    Yoho!    Yo-buba!" 


n8  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Fifty-third  Street  was  a  bus  with  a  dark,  bobbed-hair 
beauty  atop;  Fifty-second  was  a  street  cleaner  who 
dodged,  escaped,  and  sent  up  a  yell  of,  "Look  where 
you're  aimin' ! "  in  a  pained  and  grieved  voice.  At 
Fiftieth  Street  a  group  of  men  on  a  very  white  sidewalk 
in  front  of  a  very  white  building  turned  to  stare  after 
them,  and  shouted: 

"Some  party,  boys!" 

At  Forty-ninth  Street  Peter  turned  to  Dean.  "Beau 
tiful  morning,"  he  said  gravely,  squinting  up  his  owlish 
eyes. 

"Probably  is." 

"Go  get  some  breakfast,  hey  ?" 

Dean  agreed — with  additions. 

"Breakfast  and  liquor." 

"Breakfast  and  liquor,"  repeated  Peter,  and  they 
looked  at  each  other,  nodding.  "That's  logical." 

Then  they  both  burst  into  loud  laughter. 

"Breakfast  and  liquor !     Oh,  gosh  ! " 

"No  such  thing,"  announced  Peter. 

"Don't  serve  it?  Ne'mind.  We  force  'em  serve  it. 
Bring  pressure  bear." 

"Bring  logic  bear." 

The  taxi  cut  suddenly  off  Broadway,  sailed  along  a 
cross  street,  and  stopped  in  front  of  a  heavy  tomb-like 
building  in  Fifth  Avenue. 

"What's  idea?" 

The  taxi-driver  informed  them  that  this  was  Del- 
monico's. 

This  was  somewhat  puzzling.  They  were  forced  to 
devote  several  minutes  to  intense  concentration,  for  if 
such  an  order  had  been  given  there  must  have  been  a 
reason  for  it. 

"Somep'm  'bouta  coat,"  suggested  the  taxi-man. 

That  was  it.    Peter's  overcoat  and  hat.     He  had  left 


MAY  DAY  119 

them  at  Delmonico's.  Having  decided  this,  they  dis 
embarked  from  the  taxi  and  strolled  toward  the  entrance 
arm  in  arm. 

"Hey  I"  said  the  taxi-driver. 

"Huh?" 

"You  better  pay  me." 

They  shook  their  heads  in  shocked  negation. 

"Later,  not  now — we  give  orders,  you  wait." 

The  taxi-driver  objected;  he  wanted  his  money  now. 
With  the  scornful  condescension  of  men  exercising  tre 
mendous  self-control  they  paid  him. 

Inside  Peter  groped  in  vain  through  a  dim,  deserted 
check-room  in  search  of  his  coat  and  derby. 

"  Gone,  I  guess.     Somebody  stole  it." 

"Some  Sheff  student." 

"All  probability." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Dean,  nobly.  "I'll  leave  mine 
here  too — then  we'll  both  be  dressed  the  same." 

He  removed  his  overcoat  and  hat  and  was  hanging 
them  up  when  his  roving  glance  was  caught  and  held 
magnetically  by  two  large  squares  of  cardboard  tacked 
to  the  two  coat-room  doors.  The  one  on  the  left-hand 
door  bore  the  word  "In"  in  big  black  letters,  and  the 
one  on  the  right-hand  door  flaunted  the  equally  emphatic 
word  "Out." 

"Look !"  he  exclaimed  happily— 

Peter's  eyes  followed  his  pointing  finger. 

"What?" 

"Look  at  the  signs.    Let's  take  'em." 

"Good  idea." 

"Probably  pair  very  rare  an'  valuable  signs.  Prob 
ably  come  in  handy." 

Peter  removed  the  left-hand  sign  from  the  door  and 
endeavored  to  conceal  it  about  his  person.  The  sign 
being  of  considerable  proportions,  this  was  a  matter  of 


120  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

some  difficulty.  An  idea  flung  itself  at  him,  and  with  an 
air  of  dignified  mystery  he  turned  his  back.  After 
an  instant  he  wheeled  dramatically  around,  and  stretch 
ing  out  his  arms  displayed  himself  to  the  admiring  Dean. 
He  had  inserted  the  sign  in  his  vest,  completely  cover 
ing  his  shirt  front.  In  effect,  the  word  "In"  had  been 
painted  upon  his  shirt  in  large  black  letters. 

" Yoho  1"  cheered  Dean.     "Mister  In." 

He  inserted  his  own  sign  in  like  manner. 

"Mister  Out!"  he  announced  triumphantly.  "Mr. 
In  meet  Mr.  Out." 

They  advanced  and  shook  hands.  Again  laughter  over 
came  them  and  they  rocked  in  a  shaken  spasm  of  mirth. 

"Yoho!" 

"We  probably  get  a  flock  of  breakfast." 

"Well  go— go  to  the  Commodore." 

Arm  in  arm  they  sallied  out  the  door,  and  turning 
east  in  Forty-fourth  Street  set  out  for  the  Commodore. 

As  they  came  out  a  short  dark  soldier,  very  pale  and 
tired,  who  had  been  wandering  listlessly  along  the  side 
walk,  turned  to  look  at  them. 

He  started  over  as  though  to  address  them,  but  as 
they  immediately  bent  on  him  glances  of  withering  un- 
recognition,  he  waited  until  they  had  started  unsteadily 
down  the  street,  and  then  followed  at  about  forty  paces, 
chuckling  to  himself  and  saying  "Oh,  boy!"  over  and 
over  under  his  breath,  in  delighted,  anticipatory  tones. 

Mr.  In  and  Mr.  Out  were  meanwhile  exchanging  plea 
santries  concerning  their  future  plans. 

"We  want  liquor;  we  want  breakfast.  Neither  with 
out  the  other.  One  and  indivisible." 

"We  want  both  'em!" 

"Both  'em!" 

It  was  quite  light  now,  and  passers-by  began  to  bend 
curious  eyes  on  the  pair.  Obviously  they  were  engaged 
in  a  discussion,  which  afforded  each  of  them  intense 


MAY  DAY  121 

amusement,  for  occasionally  a  fit  of  laughter  would 
seize  upon  them  so  violently  that,  still  with  their  arms 
interlocked,  they  would  bend  nearly  double. 

Reaching  the  Commodore,  they  exchanged  a  few 
spicy  epigrams  with  the  sleepy-eyed  doorman,  navigated 
the  revolving  door  with  some  difficulty,  and  then  made 
their  way  through  a  thinly  populated  but  startled  lobby 
to  the  dining-room,  where  a  puzzled  waiter  showed  them 
an  obscure  table  in  a  corner.  They  studied  the  bill  of 
fare  helplessly,  telling  over  the  items  to  each  other  in 
puzzled  mumbles. 

"Don't  see  any  liquor  here,"  said  Peter  reproachfully. 

The  waiter  became  audible  but  unintelligible. 

"Repeat,"  continued  Peter,  with  patient  tolerance, 
"that  there  seems  to  be  unexplained  and  quite  distaste 
ful  lack  of  liquor  upon  bill  of  fare." 

"Here !"  said  Dean  confidently,  "let  me  handle  him." 
He  turned  to  the  waiter — "Bring  us — bring  us—  '  he 
scanned  the  bill  of  fare  anxiously.  "Bring  us  a  quart 
of  champagne  and  a — a — probably  ham  sandwich." 

The  waiter  looked  doubtful. 

"Bring  it!"  roared  Mr.  In  and  Mr.  Out  in  chorus. 

The  waiter  coughed  and  disappeared.  There  was  a 
short  wait  during  which  they  were  subjected  without 
their  knowledge  to  a  careful  scrutiny  by  the  head- 
waiter.  Then  the  champagne  arrived,  and  at  the  sight 
of  it  Mr.  In  and  Mr.  Out  became  jubilant. 

"Imagine  their  objecting  to  us  having  champagne  for 
breakfast — jus'  imagine." 

They  both  concentrated  upon  the  vision  of  such  an 
awesome  possibility,  but  the  feat  was  too  much  for  them. 
It  was  impossible  for  their  joint  imaginations  to  conjure 
up  a  world  where  any  one  might  object  to  any  one  else 
having  champagne  for  breakfast.  The  waiter  drew  the 
cork  with  an  enormous  pop — and  their  glasses  imme 
diately  foamed  with  pale  yellow  froth. 


122  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Here's  health,  Mr.  In." 

"Here's  same  to  you,  Mr.  Out." 

The  waiter  withdrew;  the  minutes  passed;  the  cham 
pagne  became  low  in  the  bottle. 

"It's — it's  mortifying,"  said  Dean  suddenly. 

"Wha's  mortifying?" 

"The  idea  their  objecting  us  having  champagne 
breakfast." 

"  Mortifying  ? "  Peter  considered.  "  Yes,  tha's  word 
— mortifying." 

Again  they  collapsed  into  laughter,  howled,  swayed, 
rocked  back  and  forth  in  their  chairs,  repeating  the 
word  "mortifying"  over  and  over  to  each  other — each 
repetition  seeming  to  make  it  only  more  brilliantly  ab 
surd. 

After  a  few  more  gorgeous  minutes  they  decided  on 
another  quart.  Their  anxious  waiter  consulted  his  im 
mediate  superior,  and  this  discreet  person  gave  implicit 
instructions  that  no  more  champagne  should  be  served. 
Their  check  was  brought. 

Five  minutes  later,  arm  in  arm,  they  left  the  Commo 
dore  and  made  their  way  through  a  curious,  staring 
crowd  along  Forty-second  Street,  and  up  Vanderbilt 
Avenue  to  the  Biltmore.  There,  with  sudden  cunning, 
they  rose  to  the  occasion  and  traversed  the  lobby, 
walking  fast  and  standing  unnaturally  erect. 

Once  in  the  dining-room  they  repeated  their  perform 
ance.  They  were  torn  between  intermittent  convulsive 
laughter  and  sudden  spasmodic  discussions  of  politics, 
college,  and  the  sunny  state  of  their  dispositions.  Their 
watches  told  them  that  it  was  now  nine  o'clock,  and  a 
dim  idea  was  born  in  them  that  they  were  on  a  memora 
ble  party,  something  that  they  would  remember  always. 
They  lingered  over  the  second  bottle.  Either  of  them 
had  only  to  mention  the  word  "mortifying"  to  send 


MAY  DAY  123 

them  both  into  riotous  gasps.  The  dining-room  was 
whirring  and  shifting  now;  a  curious  lightness  permeated 
and  rarefied  the  heavy  air. 

They  paid  their  check  and  walked  out  into  the  lobby. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  exterior  doors  revolved 
for  the  thousandth  time  that  morning,  and  admitted 
into  the  lobby  a  very  pale  young  beauty  with  dark  cir 
cles  under  her  eyes,  attired  in  a  much-rumpled  evening 
dress.  She  was  accompanied  by  a  plain  stout  man, 
obviously  not  an  appropriate  escort. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  this  couple  encountered  Mr. 
In  and  Mr.  Out. 

"  Edith,"  began  Mr.  In,  stepping  toward  her  hilari 
ously  and  making  a  sweeping  bow,  "  darling,  good  morn 
ing." 

The  stout  man  glanced  questioningly  at  Edith,  as  if 
merely  asking  her  permission  to  throw  this  man  sum 
marily  out  of  the  way. 

"'Scuse  familiarity,"  added  Peter,  as  an  afterthought. 
"Edith,  good-morning." 

He  seized  Dean's  elbow  and  impelled  him  into  the 
foreground. 

"Meet  Mr.  In,  Edith,  my  bes'  frien'.  Inseparable. 
Mr.  In  and  Mr.  Out." 

Mr.  Out  advanced  and  bowed ;  in  fact,  he  advanced  so 
far  and  bowed  so  low  that  he  tipped  slightly  forward 
and  only  kept  his  balance  by  placing  a  hand  lightly  on 
Edith's  shoulder. 

"I'm  Mr.  Out,  Edith,"  he  mumbled  pleasantly, "  S'mis- 
terin  Misterout." 

"  'Smisterinanout,"  said  Peter  proudly. 

But  Edith  stared  straight  by  them,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
some  infinite  speck  in  the  gallery  above  her.  She 
nodded  slightly  to  the  stout  man,  who  advanced  bull- 
like  and  with  a  sturdy  brisk  gesture  pushed  Mr.  In  and 


i24  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Mr.  Out  to  either  side.  Through  this  alley  he  and  Edith 
walked. 

But  ten  paces  farther  on  Edith  stopped  again — stopped 
and  pointed  to  a  short,  dark  soldier  who  was  eying  the 
crowd  in  general,  and  the  tableau  of  Mr.  In  and  Mr.  Out 
in  particular,  with  a  sort  of  puzzled,  spell-bound  awe. 

" There,"  cried  Edith.     "See  there  I" 

Her  voice  rose,  became  somewhat  shrill.  Her  point 
ing  finger  shook  slightly. 

"There's  the  soldier  who  broke  my  brother's  leg." 

There  were  a  dozen  exclamations;  a  man  in  a  cutaway 
coat  left  his  place  near  the  desk  and  advanced  alertly; 
the  stout  person  made  a  sort  of  lightning-like  spring 
toward  the  short,  dark  soldier,  and  then  the  lobby  closed 
around  the  little  group  and  blotted  them  from  the 
sight  of  Mr.  In  and  Mr.  Out. 

But  to  Mr.  In  and  Mr.  Out  this  event  was  merely  a 
particolored  iridescent  segment  of  a  whirring,  spinning 
world. 

They  heard  loud  voices;  they  saw  the  stout  man 
spring;  the  picture  suddenly  blurred. 

Then  they  were  in  an  elevator  bound  skyward. 

"What  floor,  please?"  said  the  elevator  man. 

"Any  floor,"  said  Mr.  In. 

"Top  floor,"  said  Mr.  Out. 

"This  is  the  top  floor,"  said  the  elevator  man. 

"Have  another  floor  put  on,"  said  Mr.  Out. 

"Higher,"  said  Mr.  In. 

"Heaven,"  said  Mr.  Out. 

XI 

In  a  bedroom  of  a  small  hotel  just  off  Sixth  Avenue 
Gordon  Sterrett  awoke  with  a  pain  in  the  back  of  his 
head  and  a  sick  throbbing  in  all  his  veins.  He  looked  at 


MAY  DAY  125 

the  dusky  gray  shadows  in  the  corners  of  the  room  and  at 
a  raw  place  on  a  large  leather  chair  in  the  corner  where 
it  had  long  been  in  use.  He  saw  clothes,  dishevelled, 
rumpled  clothes  on  the  floor  and  he  smelt  stale  cigarette 
smoke  and  stale  liquor.  The  windows  were  tight  shut. 
Outside  the  bright  sunlight  had  thrown  a  dust-filled  beam 
across  the  sill — a  beam  broken  by  the  head  of  the  wide 
wooden  bed  in  which  he  had  slept.  He  lay  very  quiet — 
comatose,  drugged,  his  eyes  wide,  his  mind  clicking 
wildly  like  an  unoiled  machine. 

It  must  have  been  thirty  seconds  after  he  perceived 
the  sunbeam  with  the  dust  on  it  and  the  rip  on  the  large 
leather  chair  that  he  had  the  sense  of  life  close  beside 
him,  and  it  was  another  thirty  seconds  after  that  be 
fore  that  he  realized  that  he  was  irrevocably  married  to 
Jewel  Hudson. 

He  went  out  half  an  hour  later  and  bought  a  revolver 
at  a  sporting  goods  store.  Then  he  took  a  taxi  to  the 
room  where  he  had  been  living  on  East  Twenty-seventh 
Street,  and,  leaning  across  the  table  that  held  his  drawing 
materials,  fired  a  cartridge  into  his  head  just  behind  the 
temple. 


PORCELAIN  AND   PINK 

A  room  in  ike  down-stairs  of  a  summer  cottage.  High 
around  the  wall  runs  an  art  frieze  of  a  fisherman  with 
a  pile  of  nets  at  his  feet  and  a  ship  on  a  crimson  ocean, 
a  fisherman  with  a  pile  of  nets  at  his  feet  and  a  ship 
on  a  crimson  ocean,  a  fisherman  with  a  pile  of  nets 
at  his  feet  and  so  on.  In  one  place  on  the  frieze  there 
is  an  overlapping — here  we  have  half  a  fisherman 
with  half  a  pile  of  nets  at  his  foot,  crowded  damply 
against  half  a  ship  on  half  a  crimson  ocean.  The 
frieze  is  not  in  the  plot,  but  frankly  it  fascinates  me. 
I  could  continue  indefinitely,  but  I  am  distracted  by 
one  of  the  two  objects  in  the  room — a  blue  porcelain 
bath-tub.  It  has  character,  this  bath-tub.  It  is  not 
one  of  the  new  racing  bodies,  but  is  small  with  a  high 
tonneau  and  looks  as  if  it  were  going  to  jump ;  dis 
couraged,  however,  by  the  shortness  of  its  legs,  it  has 
submitted  to  its  environment  and  to  its  coat  of  sky-blue 
paint.  But  it  grumpily  refuses  to  allow  any  patron 
completely  to  stretch  his  legs — which  brings  us  neatly 
to  the  second  object  in  the  room: 

It  is  a  girl — clearly  an  appendage  to  the  bath-tub,  only  her 
head  and  throat — beautiful  girls  have  throats  instead 
of  necks — and  a  suggestion  of  shoulder  appearing 
above  the  side.  For  the  first  ten  minutes  of  the  play 
the  audience  is  engrossed  in  wondering  if  she  really 
is  playing  the  game  fairly  and  hasn't  any  clothes  on 
or  whether  it  is  being  cheated  and  she  is  dressed. 

The  girl's  name  is  JULIE  MAR  vis.  From  the  proud  way 
she  sits  up  in  the  bath-tub  we  deduce  that  she  is  not 
very  tall  and  that  she  carries  herself  well.  When 
126 


PORCELAIN  AND  PINK  127 

she  smiles,  her  upper  lip  rolls  a  little  and  reminds  you 
of  an  Easter  Bunny.  She  is  within  whispering  dis 
tance  of  twenty  years  old. 

One  thing  more — above  and  to  the  right  of  the  bath-tub  is  a 
window.  It  is  narrow  and  has  a  wide  sill ;  it  lets  in 
much  sunshine,  but  effectually  prevents  any  one  who 
looks  in  from  seeing  the  bath-tub.  You  begin  to  sus 
pect  the  plot? 

We  open,  conventionally  enough,  with  a  song,  but,  as  the 
startled  gasp  of  the  audience  quite  drowns  out  the 
first  half,  we  will  give  only  the  last  of  it : 
JULIE:     (In  an  airy  sophrano-enthusiastico) 

When  Caesar  did  the  Chicago 
He  was  a  graceful  child, 

Those  sacred  chickens 

Just  raised  the  dickens 
The  Vestal  Virgins  went  wild. 
Whenever  the  Nervii  got  nervy 
He  gave  them  an  awful  razz 

They  shook  in  their  shoes 

With  the  Consular  blues 
The  Imperial  Roman  Jazz 

(During  the  wild  applause  that  follows  JULIE  mod 
estly  moves  her  arms  and  makes  waves  on  the 
surface  of  the  water — at  least  we  suppose  she 
does.  Then  the  door  on  the  left  opens  and  Lois 
MARVIS  enters,  dressed  but  carrying  garments 
and  towels.  Lois  is  a  year  older  than  JULIE 
and  is  nearly  her  double  in  face  and  voice,  but  in 
her  clothes  and  expression  are  the  marks  of  the 
conservative.  Yes,  you've  guessed  it.  Mistaken 
identity  is  the  old,  rusty  pivot  upon  which  the 
plot  turns.) 


128  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Lois:  (Starting)  Oh,  'scuse  me.  I  didn't  know  you 
were  here. 

JULIE:  Oh,  hello.    I'm  giving  a  little  concert 

Lois:  (Interrupting)  Why  didn't  you  lock  the  door? 

JULIE:  Didn't  I? 

Lois:  Of  course  you  didn't.  Do  you  think  I  just 
walked  through  it  ? 

JULIE:  I  thought  you  picked  the  lock,  dearest. 

Lois:  You're  so  careless. 

JULIE:  No.  I'm  happy  as  a  garbage-man's  dog  and 
I'm  giving  a  little  concert. 

Lois:  (Severely)  Grow  up! 

JULIE  :  (Waving  a  pink  arm  around  the  room)  The  walls 
reflect  the  sound,  you  see.  That's  why  there's  something 
very  beautiful  about  singing  in  a  bath-tub.  It  gives  an 
effect  of  surpassing  loveliness.  Can  I  render  you  a 
selection  ? 

Lois:  I  wish  you'd  hurry  out  of  the  tub. 

JULIE:  (Shaking  her  head  thoughtfully)  Can't  be  hur 
ried.  This  is  my  kingdom  at  present,  Godliness. 

Lois :  Why  the  mellow  name  ? 

JULIE:  Because  you're  next  to  Cleanliness.  Don't 
throw  anything  please! 

Lois :  How  long  will  you  be  ? 

JULIE:  (After  some  consideration)  Not  less  than  fif 
teen  nor  more  than  twenty-five  minutes. 

Lois:  As  a  favor  to  me  will  you  make  it  ten  ? 

JULIE  :  (Reminiscing)  Oh,  Godliness,  do  you  remember 
a  day  in  the  chill  of  last  January  when  one  Julie,  famous 
for  her  Easter-rabbit  smile,  was  going  out  and  there 
was  scarcely  any  hot  water  and  young  Julie  had  just 
rilled  the  tub  for  her  own  little  self  when  the  wicked 
sister  came  and  did  bathe  herself  therein,  forcing  the 
young  Julie  to  perform  her  ablutions  with  cold  cream — 
which  is  expensive  and  a  darn  lot  of  trouble  ? 


PORCELAIN  AND  PINK  129 

Lois :  (Impatiently)  Then  you  won't  hurry  ? 

JULIE:  Why  should  I  ? 

Lois:  I've  got  a  date. 

JULIE  :  Here  at  the  house  ? 

Lois :  None  of  your  business. 

(JULIE  shrugs  the  visible  tips  of  her  shoulders  and 
stirs  the  water  into  ripples.) 

JULIE:  So  be  it. 

Lois :  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  yes !  I  have  a  date  here 
at  the  house — in  a  way. 

JULLE  :  In  a  way  ? 

Lois:  He  isn't  coming  in.  He's  calling  for  me  and 
we're  walking. 

JULIE:  (Raising  her  eyebrows)  Oh,  the  plot  clears. 
It's  that  literary  Mr.  Calkins.  I  thought  you  prom 
ised  mother  you  wouldn't  invite  him  in. 

Lois:  (Desperately)  She's  so  idiotic.  She  detests  him 
because  he's  just  got  a  divorce.  Of  course  she's  had 
more  experience  than  I  have,  but— 

JULIE  :  (Wisely)  Don't  let  her  kid  you !  Experience 
is  the  biggest  gold  brick  in  the  world.  All  older  people 
have  it  for  sale. 

Lois:  I  like  him.     We  talk  literature. 

JULIE  :  Oh,  so  that's  why  I've  noticed  all  these  weighty 
books  around  the  house  lately. 

Lois:  He  lends  them  to  me. 

JULLE:  Well,  you've  got  to  play  his  game.  When  in 
Rome  do  as  the  Romans  would  like  to  do.  But  I'm 
through  with  books.  I'm  all  educated. 

Lois:  You're  very  inconsistent — last  summer  you 
read  every  day. 

JULIE:  If  I  were  consistent  I'd  still  be  living  on  warm 
milk  out  of  a  bottle. 

Lois:  Yes,  and  probably  my  bottle.  But  I  Jike  Mr. 
Calkins. 


130  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

JULIE:  I  never  met  him. 

Lois:  Well,  will  you  hurry  up? 

JULIE:  Yes.  (After  a  pause)  I  wait  till  the  water 
gets  tepid  and  then  I  let  in  more  hot. 

Lois :  (Sarcastically)     How  interesting ! 

JULIE:  'Member  when  we  used  to  play  "soapo"  ? 

Lois:  Yes — and  ten  years  old.  I'm  really  quite  sur 
prised  that  you  don't  play  it  still. 

JULIE:  I  do.    I'm  going  to  in  a  minute. 

Lois:  Silly  game. 

JULIE:  (Warmly)  No,  it  isn't.  It's  good  for  the 
nerves.  I'll  bet  you've  forgotten  how  to  play  it. 

Lois:  (Defiantly)  No,  I  haven't.  You — you  get  the 
tub  all  full  of  soapsuds  and  then  you  get  up  on  the  edge 
and  slide  down. 

JULIE:  (Shaking  her  head  scornfully)  Huh!  That's 
only  part  of  it.  You've  got  to  slide  down  without  touch 
ing  your  hands  or  feet 

Lois:  (Impatiently)  Oh,  Lord!  What  do  I  care?  I 
wish  we'd  either  stop  coming  here  in  the  summer  or 
else  get  a  house  with  two  bath-tubs. 

JULIE:  You  can  buy  yourself  a  little  tin  one,  or  use 
the  hose 

Lois :  Oh,  shut  up ! 

JULIE:  (Irrelevantly)  Leave  the  towel. 

Lois:  What? 

JULIE:  Leave  the  towel  when  you  go. 

Lois :  This  towel  ? 

JULIE:  (Sweetly)  Yes,  I  forgot  my  towel. 

Lois:  (Looking  around  for  the  first  time)  Why,  you 
idiot !  You  haven't  even  a  kimono. 

JULIE:  (Also  looking  around)  Why,  so  I  haven't. 

Lois:  (Suspicion  growing  on  her)  How  did  you  get 
here  ? 

JULIE:  (Laughing)  I  guess  I — I  guess  I  whisked  here. 


PORCELAIN  AND  PINK  131 

You  know — a  white  form  whisking  down  the  stairs 
and 

Lois:  (Scandalized]  Why,  you  little  wretch.  Haven't 
you  any  pride  or  self-respect  ? 

JULIE  :  Lots  of  both.  I  think  that  proves  it.  I  looked 
very  well.  I  really  am  rather  cute  in  my  natural  state. 

Lois:  Well,  you— 

JULIE  :  (Thinking  aloud)  I  wish  people  didn't  wear  any 
clothes.  I  guess  I  ought  to  have  been  a  pagan  or  a  na 
tive  or  something. 

Lois:  You're  a — 

JULIE  :  I  dreamt  last  night  that  one  Sunday  in  church 
a  small  boy  brought  in  a  magnet  that  attracted  cloth. 
He  attracted  the  clothes  right  off  of  everybody;  put 
them  in  an  awful  state;  people  were  crying  and  shriek 
ing  and  carrying  on  as  if  they'd  just  discovered  their 
skins  for  the  first  time.  Only  7  didn't  care.  So  I  just 
laughed.  I  had  to  pass  the  collection  plate  because  no 
body  else  would. 

Lois:  (Who  has  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  this  speech)  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  if  I  hadn't  come  you'd  have 
run  back  to  your  room — un — unclothed  ? 

JULIE:  Au  naturel  is  so  much  nicer. 

Lois:  Suppose  there  had  been  some  one  in  the  living- 
room. 

JULIE:  There  never  has  been  yet. 

Lois:  Yet!     Good  grief!    How  long— 

JULIE:  Besides,  I  usually  have  a  towel. 

Lois:  (Completely  overcome)  Golly!  You  ought  to 
be  spanked.  I  hope  you  get  caught.  I  hope  there's  a 
dozen  ministers  in  the  living-room  when  you  come  out — 
and  their  wives  and  their  daughters. 

JULIE  :  There  wouldn't  be  room  for  them  in  the  living- 
room,  answered  Clean  Kate  of  the  Laundry  District. 


i32  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Lois:  All  right.  YouVe  made  your  own — bath-tub; 
you  can  lie  in  it. 

(Lois  starts  determinedly  for  the  door.) 
JULIE:  (In  alarm)  Hey!    Hey!    I  don't  care  about 
the  k'mono,  but  I  want  the  towel.     I  can't  dry  myself 
on  a  piece  of  soap  and  a  wet  wash-rag. 

Lois:  (Obstinately)  I  won't  humor  such  a  creature. 
You'll  have  to  dry  yourself  the  best  way  you  can.  You 
can  roll  on  the  floor  like  the  animals  do  that  don't  wear 
any  clothes. 

JULIE  :  (Complacent  again)  All  right.    Get  out ! 
Lois:  (Haughtily)  Huh! 

(JULIE  turns  on  the  cold  water  and  with  her  finger 
directs  a  parabolic  stream  at  Lois.    Lois  retires 
quickly,  slamming  the  door  after  her.     JULIE 
laughs  and  turns  off  the  water) 
JULIE:  (Singing) 

When  the  Arrow-collar  man 

Meets  the  D'jer-kiss  girl 
On  the  smokeless  Sante  Fe 

Her  Pebeco  smile 

Her  Lucile  style 
De  dum  da-de-dum  one  day 

(She  changes  to  a  whistle  and  leans  forward  to 
turn  on  the  taps,  but  is  startled  by  three  loud 
banging  noises  in  the  pipes.  Silence  for  a  mo 
ment — then  she  puts  her  mouth  down  near  the 
spigot  as  if  it  were  a  telephone) 

JULIE:  Hello!  (No  answer)  Are  you  a  plumber? 
(No  answer)  Are  you  the  water  department?  (One 
loud,  hollow  bang)  What  do  you  want  ?  (No  answer) 
I  believe  you're  a  ghost.  Are  you  ?  (No  answer) 
Well,  then,  stop  banging.  (She  reaches  out  and  turns 
on  the  warm  tap.  No  water  flows.  Again  she  puts  her 


PORCELAIN  AND  PINK  133 

mouth  down  close  to  the  spigot)  If  you're  the  plumber 
that's  a  mean  trick.  Turn  it  on  for  a  fellow.  (Two 
loud,  hollow  bangs)  Don't  argue!  I  want  water — 
water!  Water! 

(A  young  man's  head  appears  in  the  window — a 
head  decorated  with  a  slim  mustache  and  sympa 
thetic  eyes.  These  last  stare,  and  though  they 
can  see  nothing  but  many  fishermen  with  nets 
and  much  crimson  ocean,  they  decide  him  to 
speak) 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Some  one  fainted  ? 

JULIE:  (Starting  up,  all  ears  immediately)  Jumping 
cats! 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  (Helpfully)  Water's  no  good  for 
fits. 

JULIE  :  Fits !    Who  said  anything  about  fits ! 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  You  said  something  about  a  cat 
jumping. 

JULIE:  (Decidedly)  I  did  not! 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Well,  we  can  talk  it  over  later. 
Are  you  ready  to  go  out  ?  Or  do  you  still  feel  that  if 
you  go  with  me  just  now  everybody  will  gossip  ? 

JULIE:  (Smiling)  Gossip!  Would  they?  It'd  be 
more  than  gossip — it'd  be  a  regular  scandal. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Here,  you're  going  it  a  little  strong. 
Your  family  might  be  somewhat  disgruntled — but  to 
the  pure  all  things  are  suggestive.  No  one  else  would 
even  give  it  a  thought,  except  a  few  old  women.  Come 
on. 

JULIE:  You  don't  know  what  you  ask. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Do  you  imagine  we'd  have  a 
crowd  following  us  ? 

JULIE:  A  crowd?  There'd  be  a  special,  all-steel, 
buffet  train  leaving  New  York  hourly. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Say,  are  you  house-cleaning? 


i34  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

JULIE:  Why? 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  I  see  all  the  pictures  are  off  the 
walls. 

JULIE:  Why,  we  never  have  pictures  in  this  room. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Odd.  I  never  heard  of  a  room 
without  pictures  or  tapestry  or  panelling  or  something. 

JULLE:  There's  not  even  any  furniture  in  here. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  What  a  strange  house ! 

JULIE:  It  depends  on  the  angle  you  see  it  from. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  (Sentimentally)  It's  so  nice  talking 
to  you  like  this — when  you're  merely  a  voice.  I'm 
rather  glad  I  can't  see  you. 

JULIE:  (Gratefully)  So  am  I. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  What  color  are  you  wearing  ? 

JULIE  :  (After  a  critical  survey  of  her  shoulders)  Why,  I 
guess  it's  a  sort  of  pinkish  white. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Is  it  becoming  to  you  ? 

JULLE:  Very.  It's — it's  old.  I've  had  it  for  a  long 
while. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  I  thought  you  hated  old 
clothes. 

JULIE:  I  do — but  this  was  a  birthday  present  and  I 
sort  of  have  to  wear  it. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Pinkish  white.  Well,  I'll  bet  it's 
divine.  Is  it  in  style  ? 

JULIE:  Quite.     It's  very  simple,  standard  model. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  What  a  voice  you  have !  How  it 
echoes!  Sometimes  I  shut  my  eyes  and  seem  to  see 
you  in  a  far  desert  island  calling  for  me.  And  I  plunge 
toward  you  through  the  surf,  hearing  you  call  as  you 

stand  there,  water  stretching  on  both  sides  of  you 

(The  soap  slips  from  the  side  of  the  tub  and  splashes 
in.  The  young  man  blinks) 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  What  was  that  ?    Did  I  dream  it  ? 

JULIE:  Yes.    You're — you're  very  poetic,  aren't  you? 


PORCELAIN  AND   PINK  135 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  (Dreamily)  No.  I  do  prose.  I 
do  verse  only  when  I  am  stirred. 

JULIE:  (Murmuring)  Stirred  by  a  spoon— 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  I  have  always  loved  poetry.  I 
can  remember  to  this  day  the  first  poem  I  ever  learned 
by  heart.  It  was  "Evangeline." 

JULIE:  That's  a  fib. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Did  I  say  "Evangeline"  ?  I 
meant  "The  Skeleton  in  Armor." 

JULIE:  I'm  a  low-brow.  But  I  can  remember  my  first 
poem.  It  had  one  verse: 

Parker  and  Davis 
Sittin'  on  a  fence 
Tryne  to  make  a  dollar 
Outa  fif-teen  cents. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  (Eagerly)  Are  you  growing  fond  of 
literature  ? 

JULIE:  If  it's  not  too  ancient  or  complicated  or  de 
pressing.  Same  way  with  people.  I  usually  like  'em 
if  they're  not  too  ancient  or  complicated  or  depressing. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Of  course  I've  read  enormously. 
You  told  me  last  night  that  you  were  very  fond  of  Walter 
Scott. 

JULIE:  (Considering)  Scott?  Let's  see.  Yes,  I've 
read  "Ivanhoe"  and  "The  Last  of  the  Mohicans." 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  That's  by  Cooper. 

JULIE:  (Angrily)  "Ivanhoe"  is?  You're  crazy!  I 
guess  I  know.  I  read  it. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  "The  Last  of  the  Mohicans"  is 
by  Cooper. 

JULIE:  What  do  I  care!  I  like  O.  Henry.  I  don't 
see  how  he  ever  wrote  those  stories.  Most  of  them  he 
wrote  in  prison.  "The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol"  he 
made  up  in  prison. 


136  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  (Biting  his  lip)  Literature — litera 
ture  !  How  much  it  has  meant  to  me ! 

JULIE:  Well,  as  Gaby  Deslys  said  to  Mr.  Bergson, 
with  my  looks  and  your  brains  there's  nothing  we  couldn't 
do. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  (Laughing)  You  certainly  are  hard 
to  keep  up  with.  One  day  you're  awfully  pleasant  and 
the  next  you're  in  a  mood.  If  I  didn't  understand  your 
temperament  so  well 

JULIE:  (Impatiently)  Oh,  you're  one  of  these  amateur 
character-readers,  are  you  ?  Size  people  up  in  five  min 
utes  and  then  look  wise  whenever  they're  mentioned.  I 
hate  that  sort  of  thing. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  I  don't  boast  of  sizing  you  up. 
You're  most  mysterious,  I'll  admit. 

JULIE:  There's  only  two  mysterious  people  in  history. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Who  are  they  ? 

JULIE:  The  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask  and  the  fella 
who  says  "ug  uh-glug  uh-glug  uh-glug"  when  the  line 
is  busy. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  You  are  mysterious.  I  love  you. 
You're  beautiful,  intelligent,  and  virtuous,  and  that's 
the  rarest  known  combination. 

JULIE:  You're  a  historian.  Tell  me  if  there  are  any 
bath-tubs  in  history.  I  think  they've  been  frightfully 
neglected. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Bath-tubs!  Let's  see.  Well,  Aga 
memnon  was  stabbed  in  his  bath-tub.  And  Charlotte 
Corday  stabbed  Marat  in  his  bath-tub. 

JULIE:  (Sighing)  Way  back  there!  Nothing  new  be 
sides  the  sun,  is  there  ?  Why  only  yesterday  I  picked 
up  a  musical-comedy  score  that  must  have  been  at  least 
twenty  years  old;  and  there  on  the  cover  it  said  "The 
Shimmies  of  Normandy,"  but  shimmie  was  spelt  the 
old  way,  with  a  "C." 


PORCELAIN  AND  PINK  137 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  I  loathe  these  modern  dances. 
Oh,  Lois,  I  wish  I  could  see  you.  Come  to  the  window. 
(There  is  a  loud  bang  in  the  water-pipe  and  sud 
denly  the  flow  starts  from  the  open  taps.  Julie 
turns  them  off  quickly) 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  (Puzzled)  What  on  earth  was 
that? 

JULIE:  (Ingeniously)  I  heard  something,  too. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Sounded  like  running  water. 

JULIE  :  Didn't  it  ?  Strange  like  it.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  I  was  filling  the  gold-fish  bowl. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  (Still  puzzled)  What  was  that  bang 
ing  noise  ? 

JULIE:  One  of  the  fish  snapping  his  golden  jaws. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  (With  sudden  resolution)  Lois,  I 
love  you.  I  am  not  a  mundane  man  but  I  am  a  forg- 

JULIE:  (Interested  at  once)  Oh,  how  fascinating. 
THE  YOUNG  MAN:  — a  forger  ahead.    Lois,  I  want 
you. 

JULIE:  (Skeptically)  Huh!  What  you  really  want  is 
for  the  world  to  come  to  attention  and  stand  there  till 
you  give  "Rest!" 

THE  YOUNG  MAN:  Lois  I — Lois  I 

(He  stops  as  Lois  opens  the  door,  comes  in,  and 
bangs   it   behind  her.    She  looks  peevishly   at 
JULIE  and  then  suddenly  catches  sight  of  the 
young  man  in  the  window) 
Lois:  (In  horror)  Mr.  Calkins! 
THE  YOUNG  MAN:  (Surprised)  Why  I  thought  you 
said  you  were  wearing  pinkish  white ! 

(After  one  despairing  stare  Lois  shrieks,  throws  up 

her  hands  in  surrender,  and  sinks  to  the  floor.) 
THE   YOUNG   MAN:  (In  great   alarm)    Good  Lord ! 
She's  fainted !    I'll  be  right  in. 


138  TALES   OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

(JULIE'S  eyes  light  on  the  towel  which  has  slipped 

from  Lois's  inert  hand.) 
JULIE:  In  that  case  I'll  be  right  out. 

(She  puts  her  hands  on  the  side  of  the  tub  to  lift  her 
self  out  and  a  murmur,  half  gasp,  half  sigh, 
ripples  from  the  audience. 

A  Belasco  midnight  comes  quickly  down  and  blots 
out  the  stage.) 

CURTAIN. 


FANTASIES 


THE  DIAMOND   AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ 


JOHN  T.  UNGER  came  from  a  family  that  had  been  well 
known  in  Hades — a  small  town  on  the  Mississippi  River 
— for  several  generations.  John's  father  had  held  the 
amateur  golf  championship  through  many  a  heated  con 
test;  Mrs.  Unger  was  known  "from  hot-box  to  hot-bed," 
as  the  local  phrase  went,  for  her  political  addresses;  and 
young  John  T.  Unger,  who  had  just  turned  sixteen,  had 
danced  all  the  latest  dances  from  New  York  before  he 
put  on  long  trousers.  And  now,  for  a  certain  time,  he 
was  to  be  away  from  home.  That  respect  for  a  New 
England  education  which  is  the  bane  of  all  provincial 
places,  which  drains  them  yearly  of  their  most  promis 
ing  young  men,  had  seized  upon  his  parents.  Nothing 
would  suit  them  but  that  he  should  go  to  St.  Midas' 
School  near  Boston — Hades  was  too  small  to  hold  their 
darling  and  gifted  son. 

Now  in  Hades — as  you  know  if  you  ever  have  been 
there — the  names  of  the  more  fashionable  preparatory 
schools  and  colleges  mean  very  little.  The  inhabitants 
have  been  so  long  out  of  the  world  that,  though  they 
make  a  show  of  keeping  up  to  date  in  dress  and  manners 
and  literature,  they  depend  to  a  great  extent  on  hear 
say,  and  a  function  that  in  Hades  would  be  considered 
elaborate  would  doubtless  be  hailed  by  a  Chicago  beef- 
princess  as  "perhaps  a  little  tacky." 

John  T.  Unger  was  on  the  eve  of  departure.  Mrs. 
Unger,  with  maternal  fatuity,  packed  his  trunks  full  of 
linen  suits  and  electric  fans,  and  Mr.  Unger  presented 
his  son  with  an  asbestos  pocket-book  stuffed  with  money. 

141 


142  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Remember,  you  are  always  welcome  here,"  he  said. 
"You  can  be  sure,  boy,  that  we'll  keep  the  home  fires 
burning." 

"I  know/'  answered  John  huskily. 

"Don't  forget  who  you  are  and  where  you  come  from," 
continued  his  father  proudly,  "and  you  can  do  nothing 
to  harm  you.  You  are  an  Unger — from  Hades." 

So  the  old  man  and  the  young  shook  hands  and  John 
walked  away  with  tears  streaming  from  his  eyes.  Ten 
minutes  later  he  had  passed  outside  the  city  limits,  and 
he  stopped  to  glance  back  for  the  last  time.  Over  the 
gates  the  old-fashioned  Victorian  motto  seemed  strangely 
attractive  to  him.  His  father  had  tried  time  and  time 
again  to  have  it  changed  to  something  with  a  little  more 
push  and  verve  about  it,  such  as  "Hades — Your  Op 
portunity,"  or  else  a  plain  "Welcome"  sign  set  over  a 
hearty  handshake  pricked  out  in  electric  lights.  The 
old  motto  was  a  little  depressing,  Mr.  Unger  had  thought 
— but  now.  .  .  . 

So  John  took  his  look  and  then  set  his  face  resolutely 
toward  his  destination.  And,  as  he  turned  away,  the 
lights  of  Hades  against  the  sky  seemed  full  of  a  warm 
and  passionate  beauty. 

St.  Midas'  School  is  half  an  hour  from  Boston  in  a 
Rolls-Pierce  motor-car.  The  actual  distance  will  never 
be  known,  for  no  one,  except  John  T.  Unger,  had  ever 
arrived  there  save  in  a  Rolls-Pierce  and  probably  no 
one  ever  will  again.  St.  Midas'  is  the  most  expensive 
and  the  most  exclusive  boys'  preparatory  school  in  the 
world. 

John's  first  two  years  there  passed  pleasantly.  The 
fathers  of  all  the  boys  were  money-kings  and  John  spent 
his  summers  visiting  at  fashionable  resorts.  While  he 
was  very  fond  of  all  the  boys  he  visited,  their  fathers 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     143 

struck  him  as  being  much  of  a  piece,  and  in  his  boyish 
way  he  often  wondered  at  their  exceeding  sameness. 
When  he  told  them  where  his  home  was  they  would 
ask  jovially,  "Pretty  hot  down  there  ?"  and  John  would 
muster  a  faint  smile  and  answer,  "It  certainly  is."  His 
response  would  have  been  heartier  had  they  not  all  made 
this  joke — at  best  varying  it  with,  "Is  it  hot  enough 
for  you  down  there  ? "  which  he  hated  just  as  much. 

In  the  middle  of  his  second  year  at  school,  a  quiet, 
handsome  boy  named  Percy  Washington  had  been  put 
in  John's  form.  The  newcomer  was  pleasant  in  his  man 
ner  and  exceedingly  well  dressed  even  for  St.  Midas*, 
but  for  some  reason  he  kept  aloof  from  the  other  boys. 
The  only  person  with  whom  he  was  intimate  was  John 
T.  linger,  but  even  to  John  he  was  entirely  uncommuni 
cative  concerning  his  home  or  his  family.  That  he  was 
wealthy  went  without  saying,  but  beyond  a  few  such 
deductions  John  knew  little  of  his  friend,  so  it  promised 
rich  confectionery  for  his  curiosity  when  Percy  invited 
him  to  spend  the  summer  at  his  home  "in  the  West/' 
He  accepted,  without  hesitation. 

It  was  only  when  they  were  in  the  train  that  Percy 
became,  for  the  first  time,  rather  communicative.  One 
day  while  they  were  eating  lunch  in  the  dining-car  and 
discussing  the  imperfect  characters  of  several  of  the 
boys  at  school,  Percy  suddenly  changed  his  tone  and 
made  an  abrupt  remark. 

"My  father,"  he  said,  "is  by  far  the  richest  man  in 
the  world." 

"Oh,"  said  John,  politely.  He  could  think  of  no  an 
swer  to  make  to  this  confidence.  He  considered  "That's 
very  nice,"  but  it  sounded  hollow  and  was  on  the  point 
of  saying,  "Really?"  but  refrained  since  it  would  seem 
to  question  Percy's  statement.  And  such  an  astound 
ing  statement  could  scarcely  be  questioned. 


144  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"By  far  the  richest,"  repeated  Percy. 

"I  was  reading  in  the  World  Almanac,"  began  John, 
"that  there  was  one  man  in  America  with  an  income  of 
over  five  million  a  year  and  four  men  with  incomes  of 
over  three  million  a  year,  and " 

"Oh,  they're  nothing."  Percy's  mouth  was  a  half- 
moon  of  scorn.  "Catch-penny  capitalists,  financial 
small-fry,  petty  merchants  and  money-lenders.  My 
father  could  buy  them  out  and  not  know  he'd  done  it." 

"But  how  does  he " 

"Why  haven't  they  put  down  his  income  tax?  Be 
cause  he  doesn't  pay  any.  At  least  he  pays  a  little  one 
— but  he  doesn't  pay  any  on  his  real  income." 

"He  must  be  very  rich,"  said  John  simply.  "I'm 
glad.  I  like  very  rich  people. 

"The  richer  a  fella  is,  the  better  I  like  him."  There 
was  a  look  of  passionate  frankness  upon  his  dark  face. 
"I  visited  the  Schnlitzer-Murphys  last  Easter.  Vivian 
Schnlitzer-Murphy  had  rubies  as  big  as  hen's  eggs, 
and  sapphires  that  were  like  globes  with  lights  inside 
them " 

"I  love  jewels,"  agreed  Percy  enthusiastically.  "Of 
course  I  wouldn't  want  any  one  at  school  to  know  about 
it,  but  I've  got  quite  a  collection  myself.  I  used  to 
collect  them  instead  of  stamps." 

"And  diamonds,"  continued  John  eagerly.  "The 
Schnlitzer-Murphys  had  diamonds  as  big  as  walnuts " 

"That's  nothing."  Percy  had  leaned  forward  and 
dropped  his  voice  to  a  low  whisper.  "That's  nothing 
at  all.  My  father  has  a  diamond  bigger  than  the  Ritz- 
Carlton  Hotel." 

II 

The  Montana  sunset  lay  between  two  mountains  like 
a  gigantic  bruise  from  which  dark  arteries  spread  them- 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     145 

selves  over  a  poisoned  sky.  An  immense  distance  under 
the  sky  crouched  the  village  of  Fish,  minute,  dismal,  and 
forgotten.  There  were  twelve  men,  so  it  was  said,  in 
the  village  of  Fish,  twelve  sombre  and  inexplicable 
souls  who  sucked  a  lean  milk  from  the  almost  literally 
bare  rock  upon  which  a  mysterious  populatory  force 
had  begotten  them.  They  had  become  a  race  apart, 
these  twelve  men  of  Fish,  like  some  species  developed 
by  an  early  whim  of  nature,  which  on  second  thought 
had  abandoned  them  to  struggle  and  extermination. 

Out  of  the  blue-black  bruise  in  the  distance  crept  a 
long  line  of  moving  lights  upon  the  desolation  of  the 
land,  and  the  twelve  men  of  Fish  gathered  like  ghosts 
at  the  shanty  depot  to  watch  the  passing  of  the  seven 
o'clock  train,  the  Transcontinental  Express  from  Chi 
cago.  Six  times  or  so  a  year  the  Transcontinental  Ex 
press,  through  some  inconceivable  jurisdiction,  stopped 
at  the  village  of  Fish,  and  when  this  occurred  a  figure 
or  so  would  disembark,  mount  into  a  buggy  that  always 
appeared  from  out  of  the  dusk,  and  drive  off  toward 
the  bruised  sunset.  The  observation  of  this  pointless 
and  preposterous  phenomenon  had  become  a  sort  of 
cult  among  the  men  of  Fish.  To  observe,  that  was  all; 
there  remained  in  them  none  of  the  vital  quality  of  il 
lusion  which  would  make  them  wonder  or  speculate, 
else  a  religion  might  have  grown  up  around  these  mys 
terious  visitations.  But  the  men  of  Fish  were  beyond 
all  religion — the  barest  and  most  savage  tenets  of  even 
Christianity  could  gain  no  foothold  on  that  barren  rock 
— so  there  was  no  altar,  no  priest,  no  sacrifice;  only 
each  night  at  seven  the  silent  concourse  by  the  shanty 
depot,  a  congregation  who  lifted  up  a  prayer  of  dim, 
anaemic  wonder. 

On  this  June  night,  the  Great  Brakeman,  whom,  had 
they  deified  any  one,  they  might  well  have  chosen  as 


i46  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

their  celestial  protagonist,  had  ordained  that  the  seven 
o'clock  train  should  leave  its  human  (or  inhuman) 
deposit  at  Fish.  At  two  minutes  after  seven  Percy 
Washington  and  John  T.  Unger  disembarked,  hurried 
past  the  spellbound,  the  agape,  the  fearsome  eyes  of 
the  twelve  men  of  Fish,  mounted  into  a  buggy  which 
had  obviously  appeared  from  nowhere,  and  drove  away. 

After  half  an  hour,  when  the  twilight  had  coagulated 
into  dark,  the  silent  negro  who  was  driving  the  buggy 
hailed  an  opaque  body  somewhere  ahead  of  them  in  the 
gloom.  In  response  to  his  cry,  it  turned  upon  them  a 
luminous  disk  which  regarded  them  like  a  malignant  eye 
out  of  the  unfathomable  night.  As  they  came  closer, 
John  saw  that  it  was  the  tail-light  of  an  immense  auto 
mobile,  larger  and  more  magnificent  than  any  he  had 
ever  seen.  Its  body  was  of  gleaming  metal  richer  than 
nickel  and  lighter  than  silver,  and  the  hubs  of  the  wheels 
were  studded  with  iridescent  geometric  figures  of  green 
and  yellow — John  did  not  dare  to  guess  whether  they 
were  glass  or  jewel. 

Two  negroes,  dressed  in  glittering  livery  such  as  one 
sees  in  pictures  of  royal  processions  in  London,  were 
standing  at  attention  beside  the  car  and  as  the  two  young 
men  dismounted  from  the  buggy  they  were  greeted  in 
some  language  which  the  guest  could  not  understand, 
but  which  seemed  to  be  an  extreme  form  of  the  Southern 
negro's  dialect. 

"Get  in,"  said  Percy  to  his  friend,  as  their  trunks 
were  tossed  to  the  ebony  roof  of  the  limousine.  "Sorry 
we  had  to  bring  you  this  far  in  that  buggy,  but  of  course 
it  wouldn't  do  for  the  people  on  the  train  or  those  God 
forsaken  fellas  in  Fish  to  see  this  automobile." 

"Gosh!  What  a  car!"  This  ejaculation  was  pro 
voked  by  its  interior.  John  saw  that  the  upholstery 
consisted  of  a  thousand  minute  and  exquisite  tapestries 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ    147 

of  silk,  woven  with  jewels  and  embroideries,  and  set 
upon  a  background  of  cloth  of  gold.  The  two  armchair 
seats  in  which  the  boys  luxuriated  were  covered  with 
stuff  that  resembled  duvetyn,  but  seemed  woven  in  num 
berless  colors  of  the  ends  of  ostrich  feathers. 

"What  a  car!"  cried  John  again,  in  amazement. 

"This  thing?"  Percy  laughed.  "Why,  it's  just  an 
old  junk  we  use  for  a  station  wagon." 

By  this  time  they  were  gliding  along  through  the  dark 
ness  toward  the  break  between  the  two  mountains. 

"We'll  be  there  in  an  hour  and  a  half,"  said  Percy, 
looking  at  the  clock.  "I  may  as  well  tell  you  it's  not 
going  to  be  like  anything  you  ever  saw  before." 

If  the  car  was  any  indication  of  what  John  would 
see,  he  was  prepared  to  be  astonished  indeed.  The  sim 
ple  piety  prevalent  in  Hades  has  the  earnest  worship 
of  and  respect  for  riches  as  the  first  article  of  its  creed 
— had  John  felt  otherwise  than  radiantly  humble  before 
them,  his  parents  would  have  turned  away  in  horror 
at  the  blashemy. 

They  had  now  reached  and  were  entering  the  break 
between  the  two  mountains  and  almost  immediately 
the  way  became  much  rougher. 

"If  the  moon  shone  down  here,  you'd  see  that  we're 
in  a  big  gulch,"  said  Percy,  trying  to  peer  out  of  the 
window.  He  spoke  a  few  words  into  the  mouthpiece 
and  immediately  the  footman  turned  on  a  search-light 
and  swept  the  hillsides  with  an  immense  beam. 

"Rocky,  you  see.  An  ordinary  car  would  be  knocked 
to  pieces  in  half  an  hour.  In  fact,  it'd  take  a  tank  to 
navigate  it  unless  you  knew  the  way.  You  notice  we're 
going  uphill  now." 

They  were  obviously  ascending,  and  within  a  few 
minutes  the  car  was  crossing  a  high  rise,  where  they 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pale  moon  newly  risen  in  the  dis- 


i48  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

€ 

tance.  The  car  stopped  suddenly  and  several  figures 
took  shape  out  of  the  dark  beside  it — these  were  negroes 
also.  Again  the  two  young  men  were  saluted  in  the 
same  dimly  recognizable  dialect;  then  the  negroes  set 
to  work  and  four  immense  cables  dangling  from  over 
head  were  attached  with  hooks  to  the  hubs  of  the  great 
jeweled  wheels.  At  a  resounding  "Hey-yah!"  John 
felt  the  car  being  lifted  slowly  from  the  ground — up  and 
up — clear  of  the  tallest  rocks  on  both  sides — then  higher, 
until  he  could  see  a  wavy,  moonlit  valley  stretched  out 
before  him  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  quagmire  of  rocks 
that  they  had  just  left.  Only  on  one  side  was  there 
still  rock — and  then  suddenly  there  was  no  rock  beside 
them  or  anywhere  around. 

It  was  apparent  that  they  had  surmounted  some  im 
mense  knife-blade  of  stone,  projecting  perpendicularly 
into  the  air.  In  a  moment  they  were  going  down  again, 
and  finally  with  a  soft  bump  they  were  landed  upon  the 
smooth  earth. 

"The  worst  is  over/'  said  Percy,  squinting  out  the 
window.  "It's  only  five  miles  from  here,  and  our  own 
road — tapestry  brick — all  the  way.  This  belongs  to 
us.  This  is  where  the  United  States  ends,  father  says/' 

"Are  we  in  Canada?" 

"We  are  not.  We're  in  the  middle  of  the  Montana 
Rockies.  But  you  are  now  on  the  only  five  square  miles 
of  land  in  the  country  that's  never  been  surveyed." 

"Why  hasn't  it  ?    Did  they  forget  it  ?" 

"No,"  said  Percy,  grinning,  "they  tried  to  do  it  three 
times.  The  first  time  my  grandfather  corrupted  a  whole 
department  of  the  State  survey;  the  second  time  he  had 
the  official  maps  of  the  United  States  tinkered  with — 
that  held  them  for  fifteen  years.  The  last  time  was 
harder.  My  father  fixed  it  so  that  their  compasses  were 
in  the  strongest  magnetic  field  ever  artificially  set  up. 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     149 

He  had  a  whole  set  of  surveying  instruments  made  with 
a  slight  defection  that  would  allow  for  this  territory  not 
to  appear,  and  he  substituted  them  for  the  ones  that 
were  to  be  used.  Then  he  had  a  river  deflected  and  he 
had  what  looked  like  a  village  built  up  on  its  banks — so 
that  they'd  see  it,  and  think  it  was  a  town  ten  miles 
farther  up  the  valley.  There's  only  one  thing  my  father's 
afraid  of,"  he  concluded,  "only  one  thing  in  the  world 
that  could  be  used  to  find  us  out." 

"What's  that?" 

Percy  sank  his  voice  to  a  whisper. 

"Aeroplanes,"  he  breathed.  "We've  got  half  a  doz 
en  anti-aircraft  guns  and  we've  arranged  it  so  far — but 
there 've  been  a  few  deaths  and  a  great  many  prisoners. 
Not  that  we  mind  that,  you  know,  father  and  I,  but  it 
upsets  mother  and  the  girls,  and  there's  always  the 
chance  that  some  time  we  won't  be  able  to  arrange  it." 

Shreds  and  tatters  of  chinchilla,  courtesy  clouds  in  the 
green  moon's  heaven,  were  passing  the  green  moon  like 
precious  Eastern  stuffs  paraded  for  the  inspection  of  some 
Tartar  Khan.  It  seemed  to  John  that  it  was  day,  and 
that  he  was  looking  at  some  lads  sailing  above  him  in  the 
air,  showering  down  tracts  and  patent  medicine  circu 
lars,  with  their  messages  of  hope  for  despairing,  rock- 
bound  hamlets.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  see 
them  look  down  out  of  the  clouds  and  stare — and  stare 
at  whatever  there  was  to  stare  at  in  this  place  whither 
he  was  bound —  What  then?  Were  they  induced 
to  land  by  some  insidious  device  there  to  be  immured 
far  from  patent  medicines  and  from  tracts  until  the  judg 
ment  day — or,  should  they  fail  to  fall  into  the  trap, 
did  a  quick  puff  of  smoke  and  the  sharp  round  of  a  split 
ting  shell  bring  them  drooping  to  earth — and  "upset" 
Percy's  mother  and  sisters.  John  shook  his  head  and 
the  wraith  of  a  hollow  laugh  issued  silently  from  his 


ISO  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

parted  lips.  What  desperate  transaction  lay  hidden 
here  ?  What  a  moral  expedient  of  a  bizarre  Croesus  ? 
What  terrible  and  golden  mystery  ?  .  .  . 

The  chinchilla  clouds  had  drifted  past  now  and  out 
side  the  Montana  night  was  bright  as  day.  The  tapes 
try  brick  of  the  road  was  smooth  to  the  tread  of  the  great 
tires  as  they  rounded  a  still,  moonlit  lake;  they  passed 
into  darkness  for  a  moment,  a  pine  grove,  pungent  and 
cool,  then  they  came  out  into  a  broad  avenue  of  lawn 
and  John's  exclamation  of  pleasure  was  simultaneous 
with  Percy's  taciturn  "We're  home." 

Full  in  the  light  of  the  stars,  an  exquisite  chateau 
rose  from  the  borders  of  the  lake,  climbed  in  marble 
radiance  half  the  height  of  an  adjoining  mountain,  then 
melted  in  grace,  in  perfect  symmetry,  in  translucent 
feminine  languor,  into  the  massed  darkness  of  a  forest 
of  pine.  The  many  towers,  the  slender  tracery  of  the 
sloping  parapets,  the  chiselled  wonder  of  a  thousand 
yellow  windows  with  their  oblongs  and  hectagons  and 
triangles  of  golden  light,  the  shattered  softness  of  the 
intersecting  planes  of  star-shine  and  blue  shade,  all 
trembled  on  John's  spirit  like  a  chord  of  music.  On  one 
of  the  towers,  the  tallest,  the  blackest  at  its  base,  an 
arrangement  of  exterior  lights  at  the  top  made  a  sort 
of  floating  fairyland — and  as  John  gazed  up  in  warm 
enchantment  the  faint  acciaccare  sound  of  violins 
drifted  down  in  a  rococo  harmony  that  was  like  nothing 
he  had  ever  heard  before.  Then  in  a  moment  the  car 
stopped  before  wide,  high  marble  steps  around  which 
the  night  air  was  fragrant  with  a  host  of  flowers.  At 
the  top  of  the  steps  two  great  doors  swung  silently 
open  and  amber  light  flooded  out  upon  the  darkness, 
silhouetting  the  figure  of  an  exquisite  lady  with  black, 
high-piled  hair,  who  held  out  her  arms  toward  them. 

"Mother,"  Percy  was  saying,  "this  is  my  friend,  John 
Unger,  from  Hades." 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     151 

Afterward  John  remembered  that  first  night  as  a  daze 
of  many  colors,  of  quick  sensory  impressions,  of  music 
soft  as  a  voice  in  love,  and  of  the  beauty  of  things,  lights 
and  shadows,  and  motions  and  faces.  There  was  a  white- 
haired  man  who  stood  drinking  a  many-hued  cordial 
from  a  crystal  thimble  set  on  a  golden  stem.  There 
was  a  girl  with  a  flowery  face,  dressed  like  Titania  with 
braided  sapphires  in  her  hair.  There  was  a  room  where* 
the  solid,  soft  gold  of  the  walls  yielded  to  the  pressure 
of  his  hand,  and  a  room  that  was  like  a  platonic  con 
ception  of  the  ultimate  prison — ceiling,  floor,  and  all, 
it  was  lined  with  an  unbroken  mass  of  diamonds,  dia 
monds  of  every  size  and  shape,  until,,  lit  with  tall  violet 
lamps  in  the  corners,  it  dazzled  the  eyes  with  a  white 
ness  that  could  be  compared  only  with  itself,  beyond 
human  wish  or  dream. 

Through  a  maze  of  these  rooms  the  two  boys  wan- 
dred.  Sometimes  the  floor  under  their  feet  would  flame 
in  brilliant  patterns  from  lighting  below,  patterns  of 
barbaric  clashing  colors,  of  pastel  delicacy,  of  sheer  white 
ness,  or  of  subtle  and  intricate  mosaic,  surely  from  some 
mosque  on  the  Adriatic  Sea.  Sometimes  beneath  layers 
of  thick  crystal  he  would  see  blue  or  green  water  swirl 
ing,  inhabited  by  vivid  fish  and  growths  of  rainbow 
foliage.  Then  they  would  be  treading  on  furs  of 
every  texture  and  color  or  along  corridors  of  palest 
ivory,  unbroken  as  though  carved  complete  from  the 
gigantic  tusks  of  dinosaurs  extinct  before  the  age  of 
man.  .  .  . 

Then  a  hazily  remembered  transition,  and  they  were 
at  dinner — where  each  plate  was  of  two  almost  imper 
ceptible  layers  of  solid  diamond  between  which  was 
curiously  worked  a  filigree  of  emerald  design,  a  shaving 
sliced  from  green  air.  Music,  plangent  and  unobtrusive, 
drifted  down  through  far  corridors — his  chair,  feathered 
and  curved  insidiously  to  his  back,  seemed  to  engulf 


C 


152  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

and  overpower  him  as  he  drank  his  first  glass  of  port. 
He  tried  drowsily  to  answer  a  question  that  had  been 
asked  him,  but  the  honeyed  luxury  that  clasped  his  body 
added  to  the  illusion  of  sleep — jewels,  fabrics,  wines,  and 
metals  blurred  before  his  eyes  into  a  sweet  mist.  .  .  . 

"Yes,"  he  replied  with  a  polite  effort,  "it  certainly  is 
hot  enough  for  me  down  there." 

He  managed  to  add  a  ghostly  laugh;  then,  without 
movement,  without  resistance,  he  seemed  to  float  off 
and  away,  leaving  an  iced  dessert  that  was  pink  as  a 
dream.  ...  He  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  he  knew  that  several  hours  had 
passed.  He  was  in  a  great  quiet  room  with  ebony  walls 
and  a  dull  illumination  that  was  too  faint,  too  subtle, 
to  be  called  a  light.  His  young  host  was  standing  over 
him. 

"You  fell  asleep  at  dinner/'  Percy  was  saying.  "I 
nearly  did,  too — it  was  such  a  treat  to  be  comfortable 
again  after  this  year  of  school.  Servants  undressed  and 
bathed  you  while  you  were  sleeping." 

"Is  this  a  bed  or  a  cloud?"  sighed  John.  "Percy, 
Percy — before  you  go,  I  want  to  apologize." 

"For  what?" 

"For  doubting  you  when  you  said  you  had  a  diamond 
as  big  as  the  Ritz-Carlton  Hotel." 

Percy  smiled. 

"I  thought  you  didn't  believe  me.  It's  that  moun 
tain,  you  know." 

"What  mountain?" 

"The  mountain  the  chateau  rests  on.  It's  not  very 
big,  for  a  mountain.  But  except  about  fifty  feet  of  sod 
and  gravel  on  top  it's  solid  diamond.  One  diamond, 
one  cubic  mile  without  a  flaw.  Aren't  you  listening? 
Say " 

But  John  T.  Unger  had  again  fallen  asleep. 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     153 


HI 

Morning.  As  he  awoke  he  perceived  drowsily  that 
the  room  had  at  the  same  moment  become  dense  with 
sunlight.  The  ebony  panels  of  one  wall  had  slid  aside 
on  a  sort  of  track,  leaving  his  chamber  half  open  to  the 
day.  A  large  negro  in  a  white  uniform  stood  beside  his 
bed. 

"Good-evening,"  muttered  John,  summoning  his 
brains  from  the  wild  places. 

"Good-morning,  sir.  Are  you  ready  for  your  bath, 
sir?  Oh,  don't  get  up— I'll  put  you  in,  if  you'll  just 
unbutton  your  pajamas — tjiere.  Thank  you,  sir." 

John  lay  quietly  as  his  pajamas  were  removed — he 
was  amused  and  delighted;  he  expected  to  be  lifted  like 
a  child  by  this  black  Gargantua  who  was  tending  him, 
but  nothing  of  the  sort  happened;  instead  he  felt  the 
bed  tilt  up  slowly  on  its  side — he  began  to  roll,  startled 
at  first,  in  the  direction  of  the  wall,  but  when  he  reached 
the  wall  its  drapery  gave  way,  and  sliding  two  yards 
farther  down  a  fleecy  incline  he  plumped  gently  into 
water  the  same  temperature  as  his  body. 

He  looked  about  him.  The  runway  or  rollway  on 
which  he  had  arrived  had  folded  gently  back  into  place. 
He  had  been  projected  into  another  chamber  and  was 
sitting  in  a  sunken  bath  with  his  head  just  above  the 
level  of  the  floor.  All  about  him,  lining  the  walls  of  the 
room  and  the  sides  and  bottom  of  the  bath  itself,  was  a 
blue  aquarium,  and  gazing  through  the  crystal  surface 
on  which  he  sat,  he  could  see  fish  swimming  among 
amber  lights  and  even  gliding  without  curiosity  past 
his  outstretched  toes,  which  were  separated  from  them 
only  by  the  thickness  of  the  crystal.  From  overhead, 
sunlight  came  down  through  sea-green  glass. 


i54  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"I  suppose,  sir,  that  you'd  like  hot  rosewater  and 
soapsuds  this  morning,  sir — and  perhaps  cold  salt  water 
to  finish." 

The  negro  was  standing  beside  him. 

"Yes,"  agreed  John,  smiling  inanely,  "as  you  please." 
Any  idea  of  ordering  this  bath  according  to  his  own 
meagre  standards  of  living  would  have  been  priggish 
and  not  a  little  wicked. 

The  negro  pressed  a  button  and  a  warm  rain  began  to 
fall,  apparently  from  overhead,  but  really,  so  John  dis 
covered  after  a  moment,  from  a  fountain  arrangement 
near  by.  The  water  turned  to  a  pale  rose  color  and  jets 
of  liquid  soap  spurted  into  it  from  four  miniature  wal 
rus  heads  at  the  corners  of  the  bath.  In  a  moment  a 
dozen  little  paddle-wheels,  fixed  to  the  sides,  had  churned 
the  mixture  into  a  radiant  rainbow  of  pink  foam  which 
enveloped  him  softly  with  its  delicious  lightness,  and 
burst  in  shining,  rosy  bubbles  here  and  there  about  him. 

"Shall  I  turn  on  the  moving-picture  machine,  sir?" 
suggested  the  negro  deferentially.  "There's  a  good  one- 
reel  comedy  in  this  machine  to-day,  or  I  can  put  in  a 
serious  piece  in  a  moment,  if  you  prefer  it." 

"No,  thanks,"  answered  John,  politely  but  firmly. 
He  was  enjoying  his  bath  too  much  to  desire  any  dis 
traction.  But  distraction  came.  In  a  moment  he  was 
listening  intently  to  the  sound  of  flutes  from  just  out 
side,  flutes  dripping  a  melody  that  was  like  a  waterfall, 
cool  and  green  as  the  room  itself,  accompanying  a  frothy 
piccolo,  in  play  more  fragile  than  the  lace  of  suds  that 
covered  and  charmed  him. 

After  a  cold  salt-water  bracer  and  a  cold  fresh  finish, 
he  stepped  out  and  into  a  fleecy  robe,  and  upon  a  couch 
covered  with  the  same  material  he  was  rubbed  with  oil, 
alcohol,  and  spice.  Later  he  sat  in  a  voluptuous  chair 
while  he  was  shaved  and  his  hair  was  trimmed. 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     155 

"Mr.  Percy  is  waiting  in  your  sitting-room,"  said  the 
negro,  when  these  operations  were  finished.  "My  name 
is  Gygsum,  Mr.  Unger,  sir.  I  am  to  see  to  Mr.  Unger 
every  morning." 

John  walked  out  into  the  brisk  sunshine  of  his  living- 
room,  where  he  found  breakfast  waiting  for  him  and 
Percy,  gorgeous  in  white  kid  knickerbockers,  smoking 
in  an  easy  chair. 

IV 

This  is  a  story  of  the  Washington  family  as  Percy 
sketched  it  for  John  during  breakfast. 

The  father  of  the  present  Mr.  Washington  had  been 
a  Virginian,  a  direct  descendant  of  George  Washington, 
and  Lord  Baltimore.  At  the  close  of  the  Civil  War  he 
was  a  twenty-five-year-old  Colonel  with  a  played-out 
plantation  and  about  a  thousand  dollars  in  gold. 

Fitz-Norman  Culpepper  Washington,  for  that  was  the 
young  Colonel's  name,  decided  to  present  the  Virginia 
estate  to  his  younger  brother  and  go  West.  He  selected 
two  dozen  of  the  most  faithful  blacks,  who,  of  course, 
worshipped  him,  and  bought  twenty-five  tickets  to  the 
West,  where  he  intended  to  take  out  land  in  their  names 
and  start  a  sheep  and  cattle  ranch. 

When  he  had  been  in  Montana  for  less  than  a  month 
and  things  were  going  very  poorly  indeed,  he  stumbled 
on  his  great  discovery.  He  had  lost  his  way  when  riding 
in  the  hills,  and  after  a  day  without  food  he  began  to 
grow  hungry.  As  he  was  without  his  rifle,  he  was  forced 
to  pursue  a  squirrel,  and  in  the  course  of  the  pursuit  he 
noticed  that  it  was  carrying  something  shiny  in  its 
mouth.  Just  before  it  vanished  into  its  hole — for  Provi 
dence  did  not  intend  that  this  squirrel  should  alleviate 
his  hunger — it  dropped  its  burden.  Sitting  down  to 
consider  the  situation  Fitz-Norman's  eye  was  caught 


156  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

by  a  gleam  in  the  grass  beside  him.  In  ten  seconds  he 
had  completely  lost  his  appetite  and  gained  one  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars.  The  squirrel,  which  had  re 
fused  with  annoying  persistence  to  become  food,  had 
made  him  a  present  of  a  large  and  perfect  diamond. 

Late  that  night  he  found  his  way  to  camp  and  twelve 
hours  later  all  the  males  among  his  darkies  were  back 
by  the  squirrel  hole  digging  furiously  at  the  side  of  the 
mountain.  He  told  them  he  had  discovered  a  rhine- 
stone  mine,  and,  as  only  one  or  two  of  them  had  ever 
seen  even  a  small  diamond  before,  they  believed  him, 
without  question.  When  the  magnitude  of  his  discovery 
became  apparent  to  him,  he  found  himself  in  a  quandary. 
The  mountain  was  a  diamond — it  was  literally  nothing 
else  but  solid  diamond.  He  filled  four  saddle  bags  full 
of  glittering  samples  and  started  on  horseback  for  St. 
Paul.  There  he  managed  to  dispose  of  half  a  dozen 
small  stones — when  he  tried  a  larger  one  a  storekeeper 
fainted  and  Fitz-Norman  was  arrested  as  a  public  dis 
turber.  He  escaped  from  jail  and  caught  the  train  for 
New  York,  where  he  sold  a  few  medium-sized  diamonds 
and  received  in  exchange  about  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars  in  gold.  But  he  did  not  dare  to  produce  any 
exceptional  gems — in  fact,  he  left  New  York  just  in 
time.  Tremendous  excitement  had  been  created  in 
jewelry  circles,  not  so  much  by  the  size  of  his  diamonds 
as  by  their  appearance  in  the  city  from  mysterious 
sources.  Wild  rumors  became  current  that  a  diamond 
mine  had  been  discovered  in  the  Catskills,  on  the  Jersey 
coast,  on  Long  Island,  beneath  Washington  Square. 
Excursion  trains,  packed  with  men  carrying  picks  and 
shovels,  began  to  leave  New  York  hourly,  bound  for 
various  neighboring  El  Dorados.  But  by  that  time 
young  Fitz-Norman  was  on  his  way  back  to  Montana. 

By  the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  had  estimated  that  the 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     157 

diamond  in  the  mountain  was  approximately  equal  in 
quantity  to  all  the  rest  of  the  diamonds  known  to  exist 
in  the  world.  There  was  no  valuing  it  by  any  regular 
computation,  however,  for  it  was  one  solid  diamond— 
and  if  it  were  offered  for  sale  not  only  would  the  bottom 
fall  out  of  the  market,  but  also,  if  the  value  should  vary 
with  its  size  in  the  usual  arithmetical  progression,  there 
would  not  be  enough  gold  in  the  world  to  buy  a  tenth 
part  of  it.  And  what  could  any  one  do  with  a  diamond 
that  size  ? 

It  was  an  amazing  predicament.  He  was,  in  one 
sense,  the  richest  man  that  ever  lived — and  yet  was  he 
worth  anything  at  all?  If  his  secret  should  transpire 
there  was  no  telling  to  what  measures  the  Government 
might  resort  in  order  to  prevent  a  panic,  in  gold  as  well 
as  in  jewels.  They  might  take  over  the  claim  immedi 
ately  and  institute  a  monopoly. 

There  was  no  alternative — he  must  market  his  moun 
tain  in  secret.  He  sent  South  for  his  younger  brother 
and  put  him  in  charge  of  his  colored  following — darkies 
who  had  never  realized  that  slavery  was  abolished.  To 
make  sure  of  this,  he  read  them  a  proclamation  that  he 
had  composed,  which  announced  that  General  Forrest 
had  reorganized  the  shattered  Southern  armies  and  de 
feated  the  North  in  one  pitched  battle.  The  negroes 
believed  him  implicitly.  They  passed  a  vote  declaring 
it  a  good  thing  and  held  revival  services  immediately. 

Fitz-Norman  himself  set  out  for  foreign  parts  with 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars  and  two  trunks  filled  with 
rough  diamonds  of  all  sizes.  He  sailed  for  Russia  in  a 
Chinese  junk  and  six  months  after  his  departure  from 
Montana  he  was  in  St.  Petersburg.  He  took  obscure 
lodgings  and  called  immediately  upon  the  court  jeweller, 
announcing  that  he  had  a  diamond  for  the  Czar.  He 
remained  in  St.  Petersburg  for  two  weeks,  in  constant 


I58  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

danger  of  being  murdered,  living  from  lodging  to  lodg 
ing,  and  afraid  to  visit  his  trunks  more  than  three  or 
four  times  during  the  whole  fortnight. 

On  his  promise  to  return  in  a  year  with  larger  and  finer 
stones,  he  was  allowed  to  leave  for  India.  Before  he 
left,  however,  the  Court  Treasurers  had  deposited  to 
his  credit,  in  American  banks,  the  sum  of  fifteen  million 
dollars — under  four  different  aliases. 

He  returned  to  America  in  1868,  having  been  gone  a 
little  over  two  years.  He  had  visited  the  capitals  of 
twenty-two  countries  and  talked  with  five  emperors, 
eleven  kings,  three  princes,  a  shah,  a  khan,  and  a  sul 
tan.  At  that  time  Fitz-Norman  estimated  his  own 
wealth  at  one  billion  dollars.  One  fact  worked  consis 
tently  against  the  disclosure  of  his  secret.  No  one  of 
his  larger  diamonds  remained  in  the  public  eye  for  a 
week  before  being  invested  with  a  history  of  enough 
fatalities,  amours,  revolutions,  and  wars  to  have  occu 
pied  it  from  the  days  of  the  first  Babylonian  Empire. 

From  1870  until  his  death  in  1900,  the  history  of  Fitz- 
Norman  Washington  was  a  long  epic  in  gold.  There 
were  side  issues,  of  course — he  evaded  the  surveys,  he 
married  a  Virginia  lady,  by  whom  he  had  a  single  son, 
and  he  was  compelled,  due  to  a  series  of  unfortunate 
complications,  to  murder  his  brother,  whose  unfortunate 
habit  of  drinking  himself  into  an  indiscreet  stupor  had 
several  times  endangered  their  safety.  But  very  few 
other  murders  stained  these  happy  years  of  progress 
and  expansion. 

Just  before  he  died  he  changed  his  policy,  and  with  all 
but  a  few  million  dollars  of  his  outside  wealth  bought 
up  rare  minerals  in  bulk,  which  he  deposited  in  the  safety 
vaults  of  banks  all  over  the  world,  marked  as  bric-a-brac. 
His  son,  Braddock  Tarleton  Washington,  followed  this 
policy  on  an  even  more  tensive  scale.  The  minerals 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     159 

were  converted  into  the  rarest  of  all  elements — radium 
— so  that  the  equivalent  of  a  billion  dollars  in  gold  could 
be  placed  in  a  receptacle  no  bigger  than  a  cigar  box. 

When  Fitz-Norman  had  been  dead  three  years  his 
son,  Braddock,  decided  that  the  business  had  gone  far 
enough.  The  amount  of  wealth  that  he  and  his  father 
had  taken  out  of  the  mountain  was  beyond  all  exact 
computation.  He  kept  a  note-book  in  cipher  in  which 
he  set  down  the  approximate  quantity  of  radium  in 
each  of  the  thousand  banks  he  patronized,  and  recorded 
the  alias  under  which  it  was  held.  Then  he  did  a  very 
simple  thing — he  sealed  up  the  mine. 

He  sealed  up  the  mine.  What  had  been  taken  out  of 
it  would  support  all  the  Washingtons  yet  to  be  born  in 
unparalleled  luxury  for  generations.  His  one  care  must 
be  the  protection  of  his  secret,  lest  in  the  possible  panic 
attendant  on  its  discovery  he  should  be  reduced  with 
all  the  property-holders  in  the  world  to  utter  poverty. 

This  was  the  family  among  whom  John  T.  Unger  was 
staying.  This  was  the  story  he  heard  in  his  silver- 
walled  living-room  the  morning  after  his  arrival. 


After  breakfast,  John  found  his  way  out  the  great 
marble  entrance,  and  looked  curiously  at  the  scene  be 
fore  him.  The  whole  valley,  from  the  diamond  moun 
tain  to  the  steep  granite  cliff  five  miles  away,  still  gave 
off  a  breath  of  golden  haze  which  hovered  idly  above 
the  fine  sweep  of  lawns  and  lakes  and  gardens.  Here 
and  there  clusters  of  elms  made  delicate  groves  of  shade, 
contrasting  strangely  with  the  tough  masses  of  pine 
forest  that  held  the  hills  in  a  grip  of  dark-blue  green. 
Even  as  John  looked  he  sa\v  three  fawns  in  single  file 
patter  out  from  one  clump  about  a  half  mile  away  and 


160  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

disappear  with  awkward  gayety  into  the  black-ribbed 
half-light  of  another.  John  would  not  have  been  sur 
prised  to  see  a  goat-foot  piping  his  way  among  the  trees 
or  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  pink  nymph-skin  and  flying 
yellow  hair  between  the  greenest  of  the  green  leaves. 

In  some  such  cool  hope  he  descended  the  marble 
steps,  disturbing  faintly  the  sleep  of  two  silky  Russian 
wolfhounds  at  the  bottom,  and  set  off  along  a  walk  of 
white  and  blue  brick  that  seemed  to  lead  in  no  par 
ticular  direction. 

He  was  enjoying  himself  as  much  as  he  was  able.  It 
is  youth's  felicity  as  well  as  its  insufficiency  that  it  can 
never  live  in  the  present,  but  must  always  be  measuring 
up  the  day  against  its  own  radiantly  imagined  future — 
flowers  and  gold,  girls  and  stars,  they  are  only  prefigura- 
tions  and  prophecies  of  that  incomparable,  unattaina 
ble  young  dream. 

John  rounded  a  soft  corner  where  the  massed  rose 
bushes  rilled  the  air  with  heavy  scent,  and  struck  off 
across  a  park  toward  a  patch  of  moss  under  some  trees. 
He  had  never  lain  upon  moss,  and  he  wanted  to  see 
whether  it  was  really  soft  enough  to  justify  the  use  of 
its  name  as  an  adjective.  Then  he  saw  a  girl  coming 
toward  him  over  the  grass.  She  was  the  most  beau 
tiful  person  he  had  ever  seen. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  white  little  gown  that  came  just 
below  her  knees,  and  a  wreath  of  mignonettes  clasped 
with  blue  slices  of  sapphire  bound  up  her  hair.  Her  pink 
bare  feet  scattered  the  dew  before  them  as  she  came. 
She  was  younger  than  John — not  more  than  sixteen. 

" Hello,"  she  cried  softly,  "I'm  Kismine." 

She  was  much  more  than  that  to  John  already.  He 
advanced  toward  her,  scarcely  moving  as  he  drew  near 
lest  he  should  tread  on  her  bare  toes. 

"You  haven't  met  me,"  said  her  soft  voice.    Her  blue 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     161 

eyes  added,  "Oh,  but  you've  missed  a  great  deal !"  .  .  . 
"You  met  my  sister,  Jasmine,  last  night.  I  was  sick 
with  lettuce  poisoning,"  went  on  her  soft  voice,  and  her 
eyes  continued,  "and  when  I'm  sick  I'm  sweet — and 
when  I'm  well." 

"You  have  made  an  enormous  impression  on  me," 
said  John's  eyes,  "and  I'm  not  so  slow  myself" — "How 
do  you  do  ?"  said  his  voice.  "I  hope  you're  better  this 
morning." — "You  darling,"  added  his  eyes  tremulously. 

John  observed  that  they  had  been  walking  along 
the  path.  On  her  suggestion  they  sat  down  together 
upon  the  moss,  the  softness  of  which  he  failed  to  deter 
mine. 

He  was  critical  about  women.  A  single  defect — a 
thick  ankle,  a  hoarse  voice,  a  glass  eye — was  enough  to 
make  him  utterly  indifferent.  And  here  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  was  beside  a  girl  who  seemed  to  him 
the  incarnation  of  physical  perfection. 

"Are  you  from  the  East?"  asked  Kismine  with 
charming  interest. 

"No,"  answered  John  simply.    "I'm  from  Hades." 

Either  she  had  never  heard  of  Hades,  or  she  could 
think  of  no  pleasant  comment  to  make  upon  it,  for  she 
did  not  discuss  it  further. 

"I'm  going  East  to  school  this  fall,"  she  said.  " D'you 
think  I'll  like  it?  I'm  going  to  New  York  to  Miss 
Bulge's.  It's  very  strict,  but  you  see  over  the  week 
ends  I'm  going  to  live  at  home  with  the  family  in  our 
New  York  house,  because  father  heard  that  the  girls 
had  to  go  walking  two  by  two." 

"Your  father  wants  you  to  be  proud,"  observed 
John. 

"We  are,"  she  answered,  her  eyes  shining  with  dig 
nity.  "None  of  us  has  ever  been  punished.  Father 
said  we  never  should  be.  Once  when  my  sister  Jasmine 


162  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

was  a  little  girl  she  pushed  him  down-stairs  and  he  just 
got  up  and  limped  away. 

"Mother  was — well,  a  little  startled,"  continued  Kis- 
mine,  "when  she  heard  that  you  were  from — from  where 
you  are  from,  you  know.  She  said  that  when  she  was 
a  young  girl — but  then,  you  see,  she's  a  Spaniard  and 
old-fashioned." 

"Do  you  spend  much  time  out  here?"  asked  John, 
to  conceal  the  fact  that  he  was  somewhat  hurt  by  this 
remark.  It  seemed  an  unkind  allusion  to  his  provin 
cialism. 

"Percy  and  Jasmine  and  I  are  here  every  summer, 
but  next  summer  Jasmine  is  going  to  Newport.  She's 
coming  out  in  London  a  year  from  this  fall.  She'll  be 
presented  at  court." 

"Do  you  know,"  began  John  hesitantly,  "you're 
much  more  sophisticated  than  I  thought  you  were  when 
I  first  saw  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not,"  she  exclaimed  hurriedly.  "Oh, 
I  wouldn't  think  of  being.  I  think  that  sophisticated 
young  people  are  terribly  common,  don't  you  ?  I'm  not 
at  all,  really.  If  you  say  I  am,  I'm  going  to  cry." 

She  was  so  distressed  that  her  lip  was  trembling. 
John  was  impelled  to  protest: 

"I  didn't  mean  that;  I  only  said  it  to  tease  you." 

"Because  I  wouldn't  mind  if  I  were,"  she  persisted, 
"but  I'm  not.  I'm  very  innocent  and  girlish.  I  never 
smoke,  or  drink,  or  read  anything  except  poetry.  I 
know  scarcely  any  mathematics  or  chemistry.  I  dress 
very  simply — in  fact,  I  scarcely  dress  at  all.  I  think 
sophisticated  is  the  last  thing  you  can  say  about  me.  I 
believe  that  girls  ought  to  enjoy  their  youths  in  a 
wholesome  way." 

"I  do,  too,"  said  John  heartily. 

Kismine  was  cheerful  again.     She  smiled  at  him,  and 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     163 

a  still-born  tear  dripped  from  the  corner  of  one  blue 
eye. 

"I  like  you,"  she  whispered,  intimately.  "Are  you 
going  to  spend  all  your  time  with  Percy  while  you're 
here,  or  will  you  be  nice  to  me  ?  Just  think — I'm  abso 
lutely  fresh  ground.  I've  never  had  a  boy  in  love  with 
me  in  all  my  life.  I've  never  been  allowed  even  to  see 
boys  alone — except  Percy.  I  came  all  the  way  out  here 
into  this  grove  hoping  to  run  into  you,  where  the  family 
wouldn't  be  around." 

Deeply  flattered,  John  bowed  from  the  hips  as  he  had 
been  taught  at  dancing  school  in  Hades. 

"We'd  better  go  now,"  said  Kismine  sweetly.  "I 
have  to  be  with  mother  at  eleven.  You  haven't  asked 
me  to  kiss  you  once.  I  thought  boys  always  did  that 
nowadays." 

John  drew  himself  up  proudly. 

"Some  of  them  do,"  he  answered,  "but  not  me. 
Girls  don't  do  that  sort  of  thing — in  Hades." 

Side  by  side  they  walked  back  toward  the  house. 

VI 

John  stood  facing  Mr.  Braddock  Washington  in  the 
full  sunlight.  The  elder  man  was  about  forty  with  a 
proud,  vacuous  face,  intelligent  eyes,  and  a  robust  figure. 
In  the  mornings  he  smelt  of  horses — the  best  horses.  He 
carried  a  plain  walking-stick  of  gray  birch  with  a  single 
large  opal  for  a  grip.  He  and  Percy  were  showing  John 
around. 

"The  slaves'  quarters  are  there."  His  walking-stick 
indicated  a  cloister  of  marble  on  their  left  that  ran  in 
graceful  Gothic  along  the  side  of  the  mountain.  "In 
my  youth  I  was  distracted  for  a  while  from  the  business 
of  life  by  a  period  of  absurd  idealism.  During  that 


i64  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

time  they  lived  in  luxury.  For  instance,  I  equipped 
every  one  of  their  rooms  with  a  tile  bath." 

"I  suppose,"  ventured  John,  with  an  ingratiating 
laugh,  "that  they  used  the  bathtubs  to  keep  coal  in. 
Mr.  Schnlitzer-Murphy  told  me  that  once  he " 

"The  opinions  of  Mr.  Schnlitzer-Murphy  are  of  little 
importance,  I  should  imagine,"  interrupted  Braddock 
Washington,  coldly.  "My  slaves  did  not  keep  coal  in 
their  bathtubs.  They  had  orders  to  bathe  every  day, 
and  they  did.  If  they  hadn't  I  might  have  ordered  a 
sulphuric  acid  shampoo.  I  discontinued  the  baths  for 
quite  another  reason.  Several  of  them  caught  cold  and 
died.  -  Water  is  not  good  for  certain  races — except  as  a 
beverage." 

John  laughed,  and  then  decided  to  nod  his  head  in 
sober  agreement.  Braddock  Washington  made  him 
uncomfortable. 

"All  these  negroes  are  descendants  of  the  ones  my 
father  brought  North  with  him.  There  are  about  two 
hundred  and  fifty  now.  You  notice  that  they've  lived 
so  long  apart  from  the  world  that  their  original  dialect 
has  become  an  almost  indistinguishable  patois.  We 
bring  a  few  of  them  up  to  speak  English — my  secretary 
and  two  or  three  of  the  house  servants. 

"This  is  the  golf  course,"  he  continued,  as  they  strolled 
along  the  velvet  winter  grass.  "It's  all  a  green,  you  see 
— no  fairway,  no  rough,  no  hazards." 

He  smiled  pleasantly  at  John. 

"Many  men  in  the  cage,  father?"  asked  Percy  sud 
denly. 

Braddock  Washington  stumbled,  and  let  forth  an  in 
voluntary  curse. 

"One  less  than  there  should  be,"  he  ejaculated  darkly 
— and  then  added  after  a  moment,  "We've  had  diffi 
culties." 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     165 

"Mother  was  telling  me,"  exclaimed  Percy,  "that 
Italian  teacher— 

"A  ghastly  error,"  said  Braddock  Washington  angrily. 
"But  of  course  there's  a  good  chance  that  we  may  have 
got  him.  Perhaps  he  fell  somewhere  in  the  woods  or 
stumbled  over  a  cliff.  And  then  there's  always  the  prob 
ability  that  if  he  did  get  away  his  story  wouldn't  be 
believed.  Nevertheless,  I've  had  two  dozen  men  look 
ing  for  him  in  different  towns  around  here." 

"And  no  luck?" 

"Some.  Fourteen  of  them  reported  to  my  agent 
that  they'd  each  killed  a  man  answering  to  that  descrip 
tion,  but  of  course  it  was  probably  only  the  reward 
they  were  after 

He  broke  off.  They  had  come  to  a  large  cavity  in 
the  earth  about  the  circumference  of  a  merry-go-round 
and  covered  by  a  strong  iron  grating.  Braddock  Wash 
ington  beckoned  to  John,  and  pointed  his  cane  down 
through  the  grating.  John  stepped  to  the  edge  and 
gazed.  Immediately  his  ears  were  assailed  by  a  wild 
clamor  from  below. 

"Come  on  down  to  Hell!" 

"Hello,  kiddo,  how's  the  air  up  there?" 

"Hey !    Throw  us  a  rope ! " 

"  Got  an  old  doughnut,  Buddy,  or  a  couple  of  second 
hand  sandwiches  ?" 

"Say,  fella,  if  you'll  push  down  that  guy  you're 
with,  we'll  show  you  a  quick  disappearance  scene." 

"Paste  him  one  for  me,  will  you  ?" 

It  was  too  dark  to  see  clearly  into  the  pit  below,  but 
John  could  tell  from  the  coarse  optimism  and  rugged 
vitality  of  the  remarks  and  voices  that  they  proceeded 
from  middle-class  Americans  of  the  more  spirited  type. 
Then  Mr.  Washington  put  out  his  cane  and  touched  a 
button  in  the  grass,  and  the  scene  below  sprang  into  light. 


i66  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"These  are  some  adventurous  mariners  who  had  the 
misfortune  to  discover  El  Dorado,"  he  remarked. 

Below  them  there  had  appeared  a  large  hollow  in  the 
earth  shaped  like  the  interior  of  a  bowl.  The  sides  were 
steep  and  apparently  of  polished  glass,  and  on  its  slightly 
concave  surface  stood  about  two  dozen  men  clad  in 
the  half  costume,  half  uniform,  of  aviators.  Their  up 
turned  faces,  lit  with  wrath,  with  malice,  with  despair, 
with  cynical  humor,  were  covered  by  long  growths  of 
beard,  but  with  the  exception  of  a  few  who  had  pined 
perceptibly  away,  they  seemed  to  be  a  well-fed,  healthy 
lot. 

Braddock  Washington  drew  a  garden  chair  to  the 
edge  of  the  pit  and  sat  down. 

"Well,  how  are  you,  boys  ?"  he  inquired  genially. 

A  chorus  of  execration  in  which  all  joined  except  a 
few  too  dispirited  to  cry  out,  rose  up  into  the  sunny 
air,  but  Braddock  Washington  heard  it  with  unruffled 
composure.  When  its  last  echo  had  died  away  he  spoke 
again. 

"Have  you  thought  up  a  way  out  of  your  difficulty  ?" 

From  here  and  there  among  them  a  remark  floated  up. 

"We  decided  to  stay  here  for  love!" 

"Bring  us  up  there  and  we'll  find  us  a  way!" 

Braddock  Washington  waited  until  they  were  again 
quiet.  Then  he  said: 

"I've  told  you  the  situation.  I  don't  want  you  here. 
I  wish  to  heaven  I'd  never  seen  you.  Your  own  curi 
osity  got  you  here,  and  any  time  that  you  can  think 
of  a  way  out  which  protects  me  and  my  interests  I'll 
be  glad  to  consider  it.  But  so  long  as  you  confine  your 
efforts  to  digging  tunnels — yes,  I  know  about  the  new 
one  youVe  started — you  won't  get  very  far.  This 
isn't  as  hard  on  you  as  you  make  it  out,  with  all  your 
howling  for  the  loved  ones  at  home.  If  you  were  the 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     167 

type  who  worried  much  about  the  loved  ones  at  home, 
you'd  never  have  taken  up  aviation. " 

A  tall  man  moved  apart  from  the  others,  and  held  up 
his  hand  to  call  his  captor's  attention  to  what  he  was 
about  to  say. 

"Let  me  ask  you  a  few  questions !"  he  cried.  "You 
pretend  to  be  a  fair-minded  man." 

"How  absurd.  How  could  a  man  of  my  position  be 
fair-minded  toward  you  ?  You  might  as  well  speak  of  a 
Spaniard  being  fair-minded  toward  a  piece  of  steak." 

At  this  harsh  observation  the  faces  of  the  two  dozen 
steaks  fell,  but  the  tall  man  continued: 

"All  right!"  he  cried.  "We've  argued  this  out  be 
fore.  You're  not  a  humanitarian  and  you're  not  fair- 
minded,  but  you're  human — at  least  you  say  you  are — 
and  you  ought  to  be  able  to  put  yourself  in  our  place 
for  long  enough  to  think  how — how — how — 

"How  what?"  demanded  Washington,  coldly. 

" — how  unnecessary " 

"Not  to  me." 

"Well— how  cruel " 

"We've  covered  that.  Cruelty  doesn't  exist  where 
self-preservation  is  involved.  You've  been  soldiers;  you 
know  that.  Try  another." 

"Well,  then,  how  stupid." 

"There,"  admitted  Washington,  "I  grant  you  that. 
But  try  to  think  of  an  alternative.  I've  offered  to  have 
all  or  any  of  you  painlessly  executed  if  you  wish.  I've 
offered  to  have  your  wives,  sweethearts,  children,  and 
mothers  kidnapped  and  brought  out  here.  I'll  enlarge 
your  place  down  there  and  feed  and  clothe  you  the  rest 
of  your  lives.  If  there  was  some  method  of  producing 
permanent  amnesia  I'd  have  all  of  you  operated  on  and 
released  immediately,  somewhere  outside  of  my  pre 
serves.  But  that's  as  far  as  my  ideas  go." 


i68  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"How  about  trusting  us  not  to  peach  on  you  ?"  cried 
some  one. 

"You  don't  proffer  that  suggestion  seriously,"  said 
Washington,  with  an  expression  of  scorn.  "I  did  take 
out  one  man  to  teach  my  daughter  Italian.  Last  week 
he  got  away." 

A  wild  yell  of  jubilation  went  up  suddenly  from  two 
dozen  throats  and  a  pandemonium  of  joy  ensued.  The 
prisoners  clog-danced  and  cheered  and  yodled  and 
wrestled  with  one  another  in  a  sudden  uprush  of  animal 
spirits.  They  even  ran  up  the  glass  sides  of  the  bowl  as 
far  as  they  could,  and  slid  back  to  the  bottom  upon  the 
natural  cushions  of  their  bodies.  The  tall  man  started 
a  song  in  which  they  all  joined 

"Oh,  we'll  hang  the  kaiser 
On  a  sour  apple  tree " 

Braddock  Washington  sat  in  inscrutable  silence  until 
the  song  was  over. 

"You  see,"  he  remarked,  when  he  could  gain  a  modi 
cum  of  attention.  "I  bear  you  no  ill-will.  I  like  to 
see  you  enjoying  yourselves.  That's  why  I  didn't 
tell  you  the  whole  story  at  once.  The  man — what  was 
his  name  ?  Critchtichiello  ? — was  shot  by  some  of  my 
agents  in  fourteen  different  places." 

Not  guessing  that  the  places  referred  to  were  cities, 
the  tumult  of  rejoicing  subsided  immediately. 

"Nevertheless,"  cried  Washington  with  a  touch  of 
anger,  "he  tried  to  run  away.  Do  you  expect  me  to 
take  chances  with  any  of  you  after  an  experience  like 
that?" 

Again  a  series  of  ejaculations  went  up. 

"Sure!" 

"Would  your  daughter  like  to  learn  Chinese?" 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     169 

"Hey,  I  can  speak  Italian !    My  mother  was  a  wop." 

"Maybe  she'd  like  t'learna  speak  N'Yawk!" 

"If  she's  the  little  one  with  the  big  blue  eyes  I  can 
teach  her  a  lot  of  things  better  than  Italian." 

"I  know  some  Irish  songs — and  I  could  hammer 
brass  once't." 

Mr.  Washington  reached  forward  suddenly  with  his 
cane  and  pushed  the  button  in  the  grass  so  that  the  pic 
ture  below  went  out  instantly,  and  there  remained  only 
that  great  dark  mouth  covered  dismally  with  the  black 
teeth  of  the  grating. 

"Hey!"  called  a  single  voice  from  below,  "you  ain't 
goin'  away  without  givin'  us  your  blessing?" 

But  Mr.  Washington,  followed  by  the  two  boys,  was 
already  strolling  on  toward  the  ninth  hole  of  the  golf 
course,  as  though  the  pit  and  its  contents  were  no  more 
than  a  hazard  over  which  his  facile  iron  had  triumphed 
with  ease. 

VII 

July  under  the  lee  of  the  diamond  mountain  was  a 
month  of  blanket  nights  and  of  warm,  glowing  days. 
John  and  Kismine  were  in  love.  He  did  not  know  that 
the  little  gold  football  (inscribed  with  the  legend  Pro 
deo  et  patria  et  St.  Mida)  which  he  had  given  her 
rested  on  a  platinum  chain  next  to  her  bosom.  But  it 
did.  And  she  for  her  part  was  not  aware  that  a  large 
sapphire  which  had  dropped  one  day  from  her  simple 
coiffure  was  stowed  away  tenderly  in  John's  jewel  box. 

Late  one  afternoon  when  the  ruby  and  ermine  music 
room  was  quiet,  they  spent  an  hour  there  together.  He 
held  her  hand  and  she  gave  him  such  a  look  that  he  whis 
pered  her  name  aloud.  She  bent  toward  him — then 
hesitated. 

"Did  you  say  'Kismine'  ?"  she  asked  softly,  "or " 


170  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

She  had  wanted  to  be  sure.  She  thought  she  might 
have  misunderstood. 

Neither  of  them  had  ever  kissed  before,  but  in  the 
course  of  an  hour  it  seemed  to  make  little  difference. 

The  afternoon  drifted  away.  That  night  when  a  last 
breath  of  music  drifted  down  from  the  highest  tower, 
they  each  lay  awake,  happily  dreaming  over  the  sepa 
rate  minutes  of  the  day.  They  had  decided  to  be  mar 
ried  as  soon  as  possible. 

VIII 

Every  day  Mr.  Washington  and  the  two  young  men 
went  hunting  or  fishing  in  the  deep  forests  or  played 
golf  around  the  somnolent  course — games  which  John 
diplomatically  allowed  his  host  to  win — or  swam  in  the 
mountain  coolness  of  the  lake.  John  found  Mr.  Wash 
ington  a  somewhat  exacting  personality — utterly  un 
interested  in  any  ideas  or  opinions  except  his  own.  Mrs. 
Washington  was  aloof  and  reserved  at  all  times.  She 
was  apparently  indifferent  to  her  two  daughters,  and 
entirely  absorbed  in  her  son  Percy,  with  whom  she  held 
interminable  conversations  in  rapid  Spanish  at  dinner. 

Jasmine,  the  elder  daughter,  resembled  Kismine  in 
appearance — except  that  she  was  somewhat  bow-legged, 
and  terminated  in  large  hands  and  feet — but  was  utterly 
unlike  her  in  temperament.  Her  favorite  books  had  to 
do  with  poor  girls  who  kept  house  for  widowed  fathers. 
John  learned  from  Kismine  that  Jasmine  had  never 
recovered  from  the  shock  and  disappointment  caused 
her  by  the  termination  of  the  World  War,  just  as  she 
was  about  to  start  for  Europe  as  a  canteen  expert.  She 
had  even  pined  away  for  a  time,  and  Braddock  Wash 
ington  had  taken  steps  to  promote  a  new  war  in  the 
Balkans — but  she  had  seen  a  photograph  of  some 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     171 

wounded  Serbian  soldiers  and  lost  interest  in  the  whole 
proceedings.  But  Percy  and  Kismine  seemed  to  have 
inherited  the  arrogant  attitude  in  all  its  harsh  mag 
nificence  from  their  father.  A  chaste  and  consistent 
selfishness  ran  like  a  pattern  through  their  every  idea. 

John  was  enchanted  by  the  wonders  of  the  chateau 
and  the  valley.  Braddock  Washington,  so  Percy  told 
him,  had  caused  to  be  kidnapped  a  landscape  gardener, 
an  architect,  a  designer  of  state  settings,  and  a  French 
decadent  poet  left  over  from  the  last  century.  He  had 
put  his  entire  force  of  negroes  at  their  disposal,  guar 
anteed  to  supply  them  with  any  materials  that  the  world 
could  offer,  and  left  them  to  work  out  some  ideas  of 
their  own.  But  one  by  one  they  had  shown  their  use- 
lessness.  The  decadent  poet  had  at  once  begun  be 
wailing  his  separation  from  the  boulevards  in  spring- 
he  made  some  vague  remarks  about  spices,  apes,  and 
ivories,  but  said  nothing  that  was  of  any  practical  value. 
The  stage  designer  on  his  part  wanted  to  make  the  whole 
valley  a  series  of  tricks  and  sensational  effects — a  state 
of  things  that  the  Washingtons  would  soon  have  grown 
tired  of.  And  as  for  the  architect  and  the  landscape 
gardener,  they  thought  only  in  terms  of  convention. 
They  must  make  this  like  this  and  that  like  that. 

But  they  had,  at  least,  solved  the  problem  of  what 
was  to  be  done  with  them — they  all  went  mad  early 
one  morning  after  spending  the  night  in  a  single  room 
trying  to  agree  upon  the  location  of  a  fountain,  and  were 
now  confined  comfortably  in  an  insane  asylum  at  West- 
port,  Connecticut. 

"But,"  inquired  John  curiously,  "who  did  plan  all 
your  wonderful  reception  rooms  and  halls,  and  ap 
proaches  and  bathrooms ?" 

"Well,"  answered  Percy,  "I  blush  to  tell  you,  but  it 
was  a  moving-picture  fella.  He  was  the  only  man  we 


172  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

found  who  was  used  to  playing  with  an  unlimited 
amount  of  money,  though  he  did  tuck  his  napkin  in  his 
collar  and  couldn't  read  or  write.7' 

As  August  drew  to  a  close  John  began  to  regret  that  he 
must  soon  go  back  to  school.  He  and  Kismine  had  de 
cided  to  elope  the  following  June. 

"It  would  be  nicer  to  be  married  here/'  Kismine  con 
fessed,  "but  of  course  I  could  never  get  father's  permis 
sion  to  marry  you  at  all.  Next  to  that  I'd  rather  elope. 
It's  terrible  for  wealthy  people  to  be  married  in  America 
at  present — they  always  have  to  send  out  bulletins  to 
the  press  saying  that  they're  going  to  be  married  in 
remnants,  when  what  they  mean  is  just  a  peck  of  old 
second-hand  pearls  and  some  used  lace  worn  once  by 
the  Empress  Eugenie." 

"I  know,"  agreed  John  fervently.  "When  I  was 
visiting  the  Schnlitzer-Murphys,  the  eldest  daughter, 
Gwendolyn,  married  a  man  whose  father  owns  half  of 
West  Virginia.  She  wrote  home  saying  what  a  tough 
struggle  she  was  carrying  on  on  his  salary  as  a  bank 
clerk — and  then  she  ended  up  by  saying  that  '  Thank 
God,  I  have  four  good  maids  anyhow,  and  that  helps 
a  little.'" 

"It's  absurd,"  commented  Kismine.  "Think  of  the 
millions  and  millions  of  people  in  the  world,  laborers 
and  all,  who  get  along  with  only  two  maids." 

One  afternoon  late  in  August  a  chance  remark  of 
Kismine's  changed  the  face  of  the  entire  situation,  and 
threw  John  into  a  state  of  terror. 

They  were  in  their  favorite  grove,  and  between  kisses 
John  was  indulging  in  some  romantic  forebodings  which 
he  fancied  added  poignancy  to  their  relations. 

"Sometimes  I  think  we'll  never  marry,"  he  said  sadly. 
"You're  too  wealthy,  too  magnificent.  No  one  as  rich 
as  you  are  can  be  like  other  girls.  I  should  marry  the 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     173 

daughter  of  some  well-to-do  wholesale  hardware  man 
from  Omaha  or  Sioux  City,  and  be  content  with  her  half- 
million." 

"I  knew  the  daughter  of  a  wholesale  hardware  man 
once,"  remarked  Kismine.  "I  don't  think  you'd  have 
been  contented  with  her.  She  was  a  friend  of  my  sis 
ter's.  She  visited  here." 

"Oh,  then  you've  had  other  guests  ?"  exclaimed  John 
in  surprise. 

Kismine  seemed  to  regret  her  words. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "we've  had  a  few." 

"But  aren't  you — wasn't  your  father  afraid  they'd 
talk  outside?" 

"Oh,  to  some  extent,  to  some  extent,"  she  answered. 
"Let's  talk  about  something  pleasanter." 

But  John's  curiosity  was  aroused. 

"Something  pleasanter!"  he  demanded.  "What's 
unpleasant  about  that  ?  Weren't  they  nice  girls  ? " 

To  his  great  surprise  Kismine  began  to  weep. 

"Yes— th— that's  the — the  whole  t- trouble.  I  grew 
qu-quite  attached  to  some  of  them.  So  did  Jasmine, 
but  she  kept  inv-viting  them  anyway.  I  couldn't 
understand  it." 

A  dark  suspicion  was  born  in  John's  heart. 

"Do  you  mean  that  they  told,  and  your  father  had 
them — removed  ? " 

"Worse  than  that,"  she  muttered  brokenly.  "Father 
took  no  chances — and  Jasmine  kept  writing  them  to 
come,  and  they  had  such  a  good  time ! " 

She  was  overcome  by  a  paroxysm  of  grief. 

Stunned  with  the  horror  of  this  revelation,  John  sat 
there  open-mouthed,  feeling  the  nerves  of  his  body  twitter 
like  so  many  sparrows  perched  upon  his  spinal  column. 

"Now,  I've  told  you,  and  I  shouldn't  have,"  she  said, 
calming  suddenly  and  drying  her  dark  blue  eyes. 


174  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  your  father  had  them 
murdered  before  they  left  ? " 

She  nodded. 

"In  August  usually — or  early  in  September.  It's 
only  natural  for  us  to  get  all  the  pleasure  out  of  them 
that  we  can  first." 

"How  abominable!  How — why,  I  must  be  going 
crazy !  Did  you  really  admit  that " 

"I  did,"  interrupted  Kismine,  shrugging  her  should 
ers.  "We  can't  very  well  imprison  them  like  those 
aviators,  where  they'd  be  a  continual  reproach  to  us 
every  day.  And  it's  always  been  made  easier  for  Jas 
mine  and  me,  because  father  had  it  done  sooner  than 
we  expected.  In  that  way  we  avoided  any  farewell 
scene ' 

"So  you  murdered  them !    Uh !"  cried  John. 

"It  was  done  very  nicely.  They  were  drugged  while 
they  were  asleep — and  their  families  were  always  told 
that  they  died  of  scarlet  fever  in  Butte." 

"But — I  fail  to  understand  why  you  kept  on  inviting 
them!" 

"I  didn't,"  burst  out  Kismine.  "I  never  invited  one. 
Jasmine  did.  And  they  always  had  a  very  good  time. 
She'd  give  them  the  nicest  presents  toward  the  last 
I  shall  probably  have  visitors  too — I'll  harden  up  to  it. 
We  can't  let  such  an  inevitable  thing  as  death  stand  in 
the  way  of  enjoying  life  while  we  have  it.  Think  how 
lonesome  it'd  be  out  here  if  we  never  had  any  one.  Why, 
father  and  mother  have  sacrificed  some  of  their  best 
friends  just  as  we  have." 

"And  so,"  cried  John  accusingly,  "and  so  you  were 
letting  me  make  love  to  you  and  pretending  to  return 
it,  and  talking  about  marriage,  all  the  time  knowing 
perfectly  well  that  I'd  never  get  out  of  here  alive " 

"No,"  she  protested  passionately.    "Not  any  more. 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     175 

I  did  at  first.  You  were  here.  I  couldn't  help  that,  and 
I  thought  your  last  days  might  as  well  be  pleasant  for 
both  of  us.  But  then  I  fell  in  love  with  you,  and — and 
I'm  honestly  sorry  you're  going  to — going  to  be  put 
away — though  I'd  rather  you'd  be  put  away  than  ever 
kiss  another  girl." 

"Oh,  you  would,  would  you  ?"  cried  John  ferociously. 

"Much  rather.  Besides,  I've  always  heard  that  a 
girl  can  have  more  fun  with  a  man  whom  she  knows 
she  can  never  marry.  Oh,  why  did  I  tell  you  ?  I've 
probably  spoiled  your  whole  good  time  now,  and  we 
were  really  enjoying  things  when  you  didn't  know  it.  I 
knew  it  would  make  things  sort  of  depressing  for  you." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you  ?"  John's  voice  trembled  with 
anger.  "I've  heard  about  enough  of  this.  If  you 
haven't  any  more  pride  and  decency  than  to  have  an 
affair  with  a  fellow  that  you  know  isn't  much  better 
than  a  corpse,  I  don't  want  to  have  any  more  to  do  with 
you!" 

"You're  not  a  corpse!"  she  protested  in  horror. 
"You're  not  a  corpse!  I  won't  have  you  saying  that 
I  kissed  a  corpse  ! " 

"I  said  nothing  of  the  sort!" 

"You  did !    You  said  I  kissed  a  corpse !" 

"I  didn't!" 

Their  voices  had  risen,  but  upon  a  sudden  interrup 
tion  they  both  subsided  into  immediate  silence.  Foot 
steps  were  coming  along  the  path  in  their  direction, 
and  a  moment  later  the  rose  bushes  were  parted  display 
ing  Braddock  Washington,  whose  intelligent  eyes  set 
in  his  good-looking  vacuous  face  were  peering  in  at  them. 

"Who  kissed  a  corpse?"  he  demanded  in  obvious 
disapproval. 

"Nobody,"  answered  Kismine  quickly.  "We  were 
just  joking." 


i76  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"What  are  you  two  doing  here,  anyhow?"  he  de 
manded  gruffly.  "Kismine,  you  ought  to  be — to  be 
reading  or  playing  golf  with  your  sister.  Go  read !  Go 
play  golf!  Don't  let  me  find  you  here  when  I  come 
back!" 

Then  he  bowed  at  John  and  went  up  the  path. 

"See?"  said  Kismine  crossly,  when  he  was  out  of 
hearing.  "You've  spoiled  it  all.  We  can  never  meet 
any  more.  He  won't  let  me  meet  you.  He'd  have  you 
poisoned  if  he  thought  we  were  in  love." 

"We're  not,  any  more!"  cried  John  fiercely,  "so  he 
can  set  his  mind  at  rest  upon  that.  Moreover,  don't 
fool  yourself  that  I'm  going  to  stay  around  here.  Inside 
of  six  hours  I'll  be  over  those  mountains,  if  I  have  to 
gnaw  a  passage  through  them,  and  on  my  way  East." 

They  had  both  got  to  their  feet,  and  at  this  remark 
Kismine  came  close  and  put  her  arm  through  his. 

"I'm  going,  too." 

"You  must  be  crazy " 

"Of  course  I'm  going,"  she  interrupted  impatiently. 

"You  most  certainly  are  not.     You 

"Very  well,"  she  said  quietly,  "we'll  catch  up  with 
father  now  and  talk  it  over  with  him." 

Defeated,  John  mustered  a  sickly  smile. 

"Very  well,  dearest,"  he  agreed,  with  pale  and  uncon 
vincing  affection,  "we'll  go  together." 

His  love  for  her  returned  and  settled  placidly  on  his 
heart.  She  was  his — she  would  go  with  him  to  share 
his  dangers.  He  put  his  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her 
fervently.  After  all  she  loved  him;  she  had  saved  him, 
in  fact. 

Discussing  the  matter,  they  walked  slowly  back  toward 
the  chateau.  They  decided  that  since  Braddock  Wash 
ington  had  seen  them  together  they  had  best  depart 
the  next  night.  Nevertheless,  John's  lips  were  unusu- 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     177 

ally  dry  at  dinner,  and  he  nervously  emptied  a  great 
spoonful  of  peacock  soup  into  his  left  lung.  He  had  to 
be  carried  into  the  turquoise  and  sable  card-room  and 
pounded  on  the  back  by  one  of  the  under-butlers,  which 
Percy  considered  a  great  joke. 

IX 

Long  after  midnight  John's  body  gave  a  nervous  jerk, 
and  he  sat  suddenly  upright,  staring  into  the  veils  of 
somnolence  that  draped  the  room.  Through  the  squares 
of  blue  darkness  that  were  his  open  windows,  he  had 
heard  a  faint  far-away  sound  that  died  upon  a  bed  of 
wind  before  identifying  itself  on  his  memory,  clouded 
with  uneasy  dreams.  But  the  sharp  noise  that  had  suc 
ceeded  it  was  nearer,  was  just  outside  the  room — the 
click  of  a  turned  knob,  a  footstep,  a  whisper,  he  could 
not  tell;  a  hard  lump  gathered  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach, 
and  his  whole  body  ached  in  the  moment  that  he  strained 
agonizingly  to  hear.  Then  one  of  the  veils  seemed  to 
dissolve,  and  he  saw  a  vague  figure  standing  by  the  door, 
a  figure  only  faintly  limned  and  blocked  in  upon  the 
darkness,  mingled  so  with  the  folds  of  the  drapery  as 
to  seem  distorted,  like  a  reflection  seen  in  a  dirty  pane 
of  glass. 

With  a  sudden  movement  of  fright  or  resolution  John 
pressed  the  button  by  his  bedside,  and  the  next  moment 
he  was  sitting  in  the  green  sunken  bath  of  the  adjoining 
room,  waked  into  alertness  by  the  shock  of  the  cold 
water  which  half  filled  it. 

He  sprang  out,  and,  his  wet  pajamas  scattering  a 
heavy  trickle  of  water  behind  him,  ran  for  the  aqua 
marine  door  which  he  knew  led  out  onto  the  ivory 
landing  of  the  second  floor.  The  door  opened  noise 
lessly.  A  single  crimson  lamp  burning  in  a  great  dome 


178  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

above  lit  the  magnificent  sweep  of  the  carved  stair 
ways  with  a  poignant  beauty.  For  a  moment  John 
hesitated,  appalled  by  the  silent  splendor  massed  about 
him,  seeming  to  envelop  in  its  gigantic  folds  and  contours 
the  solitary  drenched  little  figure  shivering  upon  the 
ivory  landing.  Then  simultaneously  two  things  hap 
pened.  The  door  of  his  own  sitting-room  swung  open, 
precipitating  three  naked  negroes  into  the  hall — and, 
as  John  swayed  in  wild  terror  toward  the  stairway,  an 
other  door  slid  back  in  the  wall  on  the  other  side  of  the 
corridor,  and  John  saw  Braddock  Washington  standing 
in  the  lighted  lift,  wearing  a  fur  coat  and  a  pair  of  riding 
boots  which  reached  to  his  knees  and  displayed,  above, 
the  glow  of  his  rose-colored  pajamas. 

On  the  instant  the  three  negroes — John  had  never 
seen  any  of  them  before,  and  it  flashed  through  his  mind 
that  they  must  be  the  professional  executioners — paused 
in  their  movement  toward  John,  and  turned  expectantly 
to  the  man  in  the  lift,  who  burst  out  with  an  imperious 
command : 

"  Get  in  here !    All  three  of  you !    Quick  as  hell  I " 

Then,  within  the  instant,  the  three  negroes  darted 
into  the  cage,  the  oblong  of  light  was  blotted  out  as  the 
lift  door  slid  shut,  and  John  was  again  alone  in  the  hall. 
He  slumped  weakly  down  against  an  ivory  stair. 

It  was  apparent  that  something  portentous  had  oc 
curred,  something  which,  for  the  moment  at  least,  had 
postponed  his  own  petty  disaster.  What  was  it  ?  Had 
the  negroes  risen  in  revolt?  Had  the  aviators  forced 
aside  the  iron  bars  of  the  grating  ?  Or  had  the  men  of 
Fish  stumbled  blindly  through  the  hills  and  gazed  with 
bleak,  joyless  eyes  upon  the  gaudy  valley?  John  did 
not  know.  He  heard  a  faint  whir  of  air  as  the  lift 
whizzed  up  again,  and  then,  a  moment  later,  as  it  de 
scended.  It  was  probable  that  Percy  was  hurrying  to 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     179 

his  father's  assistance,  and  it  occurred  to  John  that  this 
was  his  opportunity  to  join  Kismine  and  plan  an  im 
mediate  escape.  He  waited  until  the  lift  had  been  si 
lent  for  several  minutes;  shivering  a  little  with  the  night 
cool  that  whipped  in  through  his  wet  pajamas,  he  re 
turned  to  his  room  and  dressed  himself  quickly.  Then 
he  mounted  a  long  flight  of  stairs  and  turned  down  the 
corridor  carpeted  with  Russian  sable  which  led  to  Kis- 
mine's  suite. 

The  door  of  her  sitting-room  was  open  and  the  lamps 
were  lighted.  Kismine,  in  an  angora  kimono,  stood 
near  the  window  of  the  room  in  a  listening  attitude,  and 
as  John  entered  noiselessly  she  turned  toward  him. 

"Oh,  it's  you!"  she  whispered,  crossing  the  room  to 
him.  "Did  you  hear  them  ?" 

"I  heard  your  father's  slaves  in  my " 

"No,"  she  interrupted  excitedly.    "Aeroplanes!" 
"Aeroplanes  ?    Perhaps  that  was  the  sound  that  woke 
me." 

"There're  at  least  a  dozen.    I  saw  one  a  few  moments 
ago  dead  against  the  moon.    The  guard  back  by  the 
cliff  fired  his  rifle  and  that's  what  roused  father.    We're 
going  to  open  on  them  right  away." 
"Are  they  here  on  purpose  ?" 

"Yes — it's  that  Italian  who  got  away " 

Simultaneously  with  her  last  word,  a  succession  of 
sharp  cracks  tumbled  in  through  the  open  window. 
Kismine  uttered  a  little  cry,  took  a  penny  with  fumbling 
fingers  from  a  box  on  her  dresser,  and  ran  to  one  of  the 
electric  lights.  In  an  instant  the  entire  chateau  was  in 
darkness — she  had  blown  out  the  fuse. 

"  Come  on ! "  she  cried  to  him.  "We'll  go  up  to  the  roof 
garden,  and  watch  it  from  there ! " 

Drawing  a  cape  about  her,  she  took  his  hand,  and  they 
found  their  way  out  the  door.  It  was  only  a  step  to 


i8o  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

the  tower  lift,  and  as  she  pressed  the  button  that  shot 
them  upward  he  put  his  arms  around  her  in  the  darkness 
and  kissed  her  mouth.  Romance  had  come  to  John 
linger  at  last.  A  minute  later  they  had  stepped  out 
upon  the  star-white  platform.  Above,  under  the  misty 
moon,  sliding  in  and  out  of  the  patches  of  cloud  that 
eddied  below  it,  floated  a  dozen  dark-winged  bodies  in 
a  constant  circling  course.  From  here  and  there  in  the 
valley  flashes  of  fire  leaped  toward  them,  followed  by 
sharp  detonations.  Kismine  clapped  her  hands  with 
pleasure,  which,  a  moment  later,  turned  to  dismay  as 
the  aeroplanes  at  some  prearranged  signal,  began  to 
release  their  bombs  and  the  whole  of  the  valley  became 
a  panorama  of  deep  reverberate  sound  and  lurid  light. 

Before  long  the  aim  of  the  attackers  became  concen 
trated  upon  the  points  where  the  anti-aircraft  guns 
were  situated,  and  one  of  them  was  almost  immediately 
reduced  to  a  giant  cinder  to  lie  smouldering  in  a  park 
of  rose  bushes. 

"Kismine,"  begged  John,  "you'll  be  glad  when  I  tell 
you  that  this  attack  came  on  the  eve  of  my  murder. 
If  I  hadn't  heard  that  guard  shoot  off  his  gun  back  by 
the  pass  I  should  now  be  stone  dead " 

"I  can't  hear  you !"  cried  Kismine,  intent  on  the  scene 
before  her.  "You'll  have  to  talk  louder!" 

"I  simply  said,"  shouted  John,  "that  we'd  better  get 
out  before  they  begin  to  shell  the  chateau!" 

Suddenly  the  whole  portico  of  the  negro  quarters 
cracked  asunder,  a  geyser  of  flame  shot  up  from  under 
the  colonnades,  and  great  fragments  of  jagged  marble 
were  hurled  as  far  as  the  borders  of  the  lake. 

"There  go  fifty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  slaves," 
cried  Kismine,  "at  prewar  prices.  So  few  Americans 
have  any  respect  for  property." 

John  renewed  his  efforts  to  compel  her  to  leave.    The 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     181 

aim  of  the  aeroplanes  was  becoming  more  precise  minute 
by  minute,  and  only  two  of  the  anti-aircraft  guns  were 
still  retaliating.  It  was  obvious  that  the  garrison,  en 
circled  with  fire,  could  not  hold  out  much  longer. 

"Come  on!"  cried  John,  pulling  Kismine's  arm, 
"we've  got  to  go.  Do  you  realize  that  those  aviators 
will  kill  you  without  question  if  they  find  you  ?" 

She  consented  reluctantly. 

"We'll  have  to  wake  Jasmine  I"  she  said,  as  they  hur 
ried  toward  the  lift.  Then  she  added  in  a  sort  of  child 
ish  delight:  "Well  be  poor,  won't  we?  Like  people  in 
books.  And  I'll  be  an  orphan  and  utterly  free.  Free 
and  poor!  What  fun!"  She  stopped  and  raised  her 
lips  to  him  in  a  delighted  kiss. 

"It's  impossible  to  be  both  together,"  said  John 
grimly.  "People  have  found  that  out.  And  I  should 
choose  to  be  free  as  preferable  of  the  two.  As  an  extra 
caution  you'd  better  dump  the  contents  of  your  jewel 
box  into  your  pockets." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  two  girls  met  John  in  the  dark 
corridor  and  they  descended  to  the  main  floor  of  the 
chateau.  Passing  for  the  last  time  through  the  mag 
nificence  of  the  splendid  halls,  they  stood  for  a  moment 
out  on  the  terrace,  watching  the  burning  negro  quarters 
and  the  flaming  embers  of  two  planes  which  had  fallen 
on  the  other  side  of  the  lake.  A  solitary  gun  was  still 
keeping  up  a  sturdy  popping,  and  the  attackers  seemed 
timorous  about  descending  lower,  but  sent  their  thun 
derous  fireworks  in  a  circle  around  it,  until  any  chance 
shot  might  annihilate  its  Ethiopian  crew. 

John  and  the  two  sisters  passed  down  the  marble 
steps,  turned  sharply  to  the  left,  and  began  to  ascend 
a  narrow  path  that  wound  like  a  garter  about  the  dia 
mond  mountain.  Kismine  knew  a  heavily  wooded  spot 
half-way  up  where  they  could  lie  concealed  and  yet  be 


182  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

able  to  observe  the  wild  night  in  the  valley — finally  to 
make  an  escape,  when  it  should  be  necessary,  along  a 
secret  path  laid  in  a  rocky  guily. 


X 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  they  attained  their  destina 
tion.  The  obliging  and  phlegmatic  Jasmine  fell  off  to 
sleep  immediately,  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a  large 
tree,  while  John  and  Kismine  sat,  his  arm  around  her, 
and  watched  the  desperate  ebb  and  flow  of  the  dying 
battle  among  the  ruins  of  a  vista  that  had  been  a  garden 
spot  that  morning.  Shortly  after  four  o'clock  the  last 
remaining  gun  gave  out  a  clanging  sound  and  went  out 
of  action  in  a  swift  tongue  of  red  smoke.  Though  the 
moon  was  down,  they  saw  that  the  flying  bodies  were 
circling  closer  to  the  earth.  When  the  planes  had  made 
certain  that  the  beleaguered  possessed  no  further  re 
sources,  they  would  land  and  the  dark  and  glittering 
reign  of  the  Washingtons  would  be  over. 

With  the  cessation  of  the  firing  the  valley  grew  quiet. 
The  embers  of  the  two  aeroplanes  glowed  like  the  eyes 
of  some  monster  crouching  in  the  grass.  The  chateau 
stood  dark  and  silent,  beautiful  without  light  as  it  had 
been  beautiful  in  the  sun,  while  the  woody  rattles  of 
Nemesis  filled  the  air  above  with  a  growing  and  reced 
ing  complaint.  Then  John  perceived  that  Kismine, 
like  her  sister,  had  fallen  sound  asleep. 

It  was  long  after  four  when  he  became  aware  of  foot 
steps  along  the  path  they  had  lately  followed,  and  he 
waited  in  breathless  silence  until  the  persons  to  whom 
they  belonged  had  passed  the  vantage-point  he  occupied. 
There  was  a  faint  stir  in  the  air  now  that  was  not  of 
human  origin,  and  the  dew  was  cold;  he  knew  that  the 
dawn  would  break  soon.  John  waited  until  the  steps 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     183 

had  gone  a  safe  distance  up  the  mountain  and  were  in 
audible.  Then  he  followed.  About  half-way  to  the 
steep  summit  the  trees  fell  away  and  a  hard  saddle  of 
rock  spread  itself  over  the  diamond  beneath.  Just  be 
fore  he  reached  this  point  he  slowed  down  his  pace, 
warned  by  an  animal  sense  that  there  was  life  just  ahead 
of  him.  Coming  to  a  high  boulder,  he  lifted  his  head 
gradually  above  its  edge.  His  curiosity  was  rewarded; 
this  is  what  he  saw: 

Braddock  Washington  was  standing  there  motionless, 
silhouetted  against  the  gray  sky  without  sound  or  sign 
of  life.  As  the  dawn  came  up  out  of  the  east,  lending  a 
cold  green  color  to  the  earth,  it  brought  the  solitary 
figure  into  insignificant  contrast  with  the  new  day. 

While  John  watched,  his  host  remained  for  a  few  mo 
ments  absorbed  in  some  inscrutable  contemplation; 
then  he  signalled  to  the  two  negroes  who  crouched  at  his 
feet  to  lift  the  burden  which  lay  between  them.  As 
they  struggled  upright,  the  first  yellow  beam  of  the  sun 
struck  through  the  innumerable  prisms  of  an  immense 
and  exquisitely  chiselled  diamond — and  a  white  radiance 
was  kindled  that  glowed  upon  the  air  like  a  fragment  of 
the  morning  star.  The  bearers  staggered  beneath  its 
weight  for  a  moment — then  their  rippling  muscles  caught 
and  hardened  under  the  wet  shine  of  the  skins  and  the 
three  figures  were  again  motionless  in  their  defiant 
impotency  before  the  heavens. 

After  a  while  the  white  man  lifted  his  head  and  slowly 
raised  his  arms  in  a  gesture  of  attention,  as  one  who  would 
call  a  great  crowd  to  hear — but  there  was  no  crowd,  only 
the  vast  silence  of  the  mountain  and  the  sky,  broken  by 
faint  bird  voices  down  among  the  trees.  The  figure  on 
the  saddle  of  rock  began  to  speak  ponderously  and  with 
an  inextinguishable  pride. 

"You  out  there — "  he  cried  in  a  trembling  voice. 


184  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"You— there— !"  He  paused,  his  arms  still  uplifted, 
his  head  held  attentively  as  though  he  were  expecting 
an  answer.  John  strained  his  eyes  to  see  whether 
there  might  be  men  coming  down  the  mountain,  but  the 
mountain  was  bare  of  human  life.  There  was  only  sky 
and  a  mocking  flute  of  wind  along  the  tree-tops.  Could 
Washington  be  praying  ?  For  a  moment  John  wondered. 
Then  the  illusion  passed — there  was  something  in  the 
man's  whole  attitude  antithetical  to  prayer. 

"Oh,  you  above  there!" 

The  voice  was  become  strong  and  confident.  This 
was  no  forlorn  supplication.  If  anything,  there  was  in 
it  a  quality  of  monstrous  condescension. 

"You  there " 

Words,  too  quickly  uttered  to  be  understood,  flowing 
one  into  the  other.  .  .  .  John  listened  breathlessly, 
catching  a  phrase  here  and  there,  while  the  voice  broke 
off,  resumed,  broke  off  again — now  strong  and  argu 
mentative,  now  colored  with  a  slow,  puzzled  impatience. 
Then  a  conviction  commenced  to  dawn  on  the  single 
listener,  and  as  realization  crept  over  him  a  spray  of 
quick  blood  rushed  through  his  arteries.  Braddock 
Washington  was  offering  a  bribe  to  God ! 

That  was  it — there  was  no  doubt.  The  diamond  in 
the  arms  of  his  slaves  was  some  advance  sample,  a  prom 
ise  of  more  to  follow. 

That,  John  perceived  after  a  time,  was  the  thread 
running  through  his  sentences.  Prometheus  Enriched 
was  calling  to  witness  forgotten  sacrifices,  forgotten 
rituals,  prayers  obsolete  before  the  birth  of  Christ. 
For  a  while  his  discourse  took  the  form  of  reminding  God 
of  this  gift  or  that  which  Divinity  had  deigned  to  accept 
from  men — great  churches  if  he  would  rescue  cities  from 
the  plague,  gifts  of  myrrh  and  gold,  of  human  lives  and 
beautiful  women  and  captive  armies,  of  children  and 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     185 

queens,  of  beasts  of  the  forest  and  field,  sheep  and  goats, 
harvests  and  cities,  whole  conquered  lands  that  had  been 
offered  up  in  lust  or  blood  for  His  appeasal,  buying  a 
meed's  worth  of  alleviation  from  the  Divine  wrath — 
and  now  he,  Braddock  Washington,  Emperor  of  Dia 
monds,  king  and  priest  of  the  age  of  gold,  arbiter  of 
splendor  and  luxury,  would  offer  up  a  treasure  such  as 
princes  before  him  had  never  dreamed  of,  offer  it  up 
not  in  suppliance,  but  in  pride. 

He  would  give  to  God,  he  continued,  getting  down  to 
specifications,  the  greatest  diamond  in  the  world.  This 
diamond  would  be  cut  with  many  more  thousand  facets 
than  there  were  leaves  on  a  tree,  and  yet  the  whole  dia 
mond  would  be  shaped  with  the  perfection  of  a  stone  no 
bigger  than  a  fly.  Many  men  would  work  upon  it  for 
many  years.  It  would  be  set  in  a  great  dome  of  beaten 
gold,  wonderfully  carved  and  equipped  with  gates  of 
opal  and  crusted  sapphire.  In  the  middle  would  be  hol 
lowed  out  a  chapel  presided  over  by  an  altar  of  irides 
cent,  decomposing,  ever-changing  radium  which  would 
burn  out  the  eyes  of  any  worshipper  who  lifted  up  his 
head  from  prayer — and  on  this  altar  there  would  be 
slain  for  the  amusement  of  the  Divine  Benefactor  any 
victim  He  should  choose,  even  though  it  should  be  the 
greatest  and  most  powerful  man  alive. 

In  return  he  asked  only  a  simple  thing,  a  thing  that  for 
God  would  be  absurdly  easy — only  that  matters  should 
be  as  they  were  yesterday  at  this  hour  and  that  they 
should  so  remain.  So  very  simple !  Let  but  the  heav 
ens  open,  .swallowing  these  men  and  their  aeroplanes — 
and  then  close  again.  Let  him  have  his  slaves  once 
more,  restored  to  life  and  well. 

There  was  no  one  else  with  whom  he  had  ever  needed 
to  treat  or  bargain. 

He  doubted  only  whether  he  had  made  his  bribe  big 


186  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

enoughX  God  had  His  price,  of  course.  God  was  made 
in  man's  image,  so  it  had  been  said:  He  must  have  His 
price.  And  the  price  would  be  rare — no  cathedral  whose 
building  consumed  many  years,  no  pyramid  constructed 
by  ten  thousand  workmen,  would  be  like  this  cathedral, 
this  pyramid. 

He  paused  here.  That  was  his  proposition.  Every 
thing  would  be  up  to  specifications  and  there  was  noth 
ing  vulgar  in  his  assertion  that  it  would  be  cheap  at  the 
price.  He  implied  that  Providence  could  take  it  or 
leave  it. 

As  he  approached  the  end  his  sentences  became 
broken,  became  short  and  uncertain,  and  his  body 
seemed  tense,  seemed  strained  to  catch  the  slightest 
pressure  or  whisper  of  life  in  the  spaces  around  him. 
His  hair  had  turned  gradually  white  as  he  talked,  and 
now  he  lifted  his  head  high  to  the  heavens  like  a  prophet 
of  old — magnificently  mad. 

Then,  as  John  stared  in  giddy  fascination,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  a  curious  phenomenon  took  place  somewhere 
around  him.  It  was  as  though  the  sky  had  darkened 
for  an  instant,  as  though  there  had  been  a  sudden  mur 
mur  in  a  gust  of  wind,  a  sound  of  far-away  trumpets, 
a  sighing  like  the  rustle  of  a  great  silken  robe — for  a 
time  the  whole  of  nature  round  about  partook  of  this 
darkness;  the  birds'  song  ceased;  the  trees  were  still, 
and  far  over  the  mountain  there  was  a  mutter  of  dull, 
menacing  thunder. 

That  was  all.  The  wind  died  along  the  tall  grasses  of 
the  valley.  The  dawn  and  the  day  resumed  their  place 
in  a  time,  and  the  risen  sun  sent  hot  waves  of  yellow 
mist  that  made  its  path  bright  before  it.  The  leaves 
laughed  in  the  sun,  and  their  laughter  shook  the  trees 
until  each  bough  was  like  a  girl's  school  in  fairyland. 
God  had  refused  to  accept  the  bribe. 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     187 

For  another  moment  John  watched  the  triumph  of 
the  day.  Then,  turning,  he  saw  a  flutter  of  brown  down 
by  the  lake,  then  another  flutter,  then  another,  like 
the  dance  of  golden  angels  alighting  from  the  clouds. 
The  aeroplanes  had  come  to  earth. 

John  slid  off  the  boulder  and  ran  down  the  side  of 
the  mountain  to  the  clump  of  trees,  where  the  two  girls 
were  awake  and  waiting  for  him.  Kismine  sprang  to 
her  feet,  the  jewels  in  her  pockets  jingling,  a  question  on 
her  parted  lips,  but  instinct  told  John  that  there^was  no 
time  for  words.  They  must  get  off  the  mountain  with 
out  losing  a  moment.  He  seized  a  hand  of  each,  and 
in  silence  they  threaded  the  tree-trunks,  washed  with 
light  now  and  with  the  rising  mist.  Behind  them  from 
the  valley  came  no  sound  at  all,  except  the  complaint 
of  the  peacocks  far  away  and  the  pleasant  undertone  of 
morning. 

When  they  had  gone  about  half  a  mile,  they  avoided 
the  park  land  and  entered  a  narrow  path  that  led  over 
the  next  rise  of  ground.  At  the  highest  point  of  this 
they  paused  and  turned  around.  Their  eyes  rested 
upon  the  mountainside  they  had  just  left — oppressed 
by  some  dark  sense  of  tragic  impend  ency. 

Clear  against  the  sky  a  broken,  white-haired  man  was 
slowly  descending  the  steep  slope,  followed  by  two  gi 
gantic  and  emotionless  negroes,  who  carried  a  burden 
between  them  which  still  flashed  and  glittered  in  the 
sun.  Half-way  down  two  other  figures  joined  them — 
John  could  see  that  they  were  Mrs.  Washington  and 
her  son,  upon  whose  arm  she  leaned.  The  aviators  had 
clambered  from  their  machines  to  the  sweeping  lawn  in 
front  of  the  chateau,  and  with  rifles  in  hand  were  start 
ing  up  the  diamond  mountain  in  skirmishing  formation. 

But  the  little  group  of  five  which  had  formed  farther 
up  and  was  engrossing  all  the  watchers'  attention  had 


i88  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

stopped  upon  a  ledge  of  rock.  The  negroes  stooped 
and  pulled  up  what  appeared  to  be  a  trap-door  in  the 
side  of  the  mountain.  Into  this  they  all  disappeared, 
the  white-haired  man  first,  then  his  wife  and  son,  finally 
the  two  negroes,  the  glittering  tips  of  whose  jeweled 
head-dresses  caught  the  sun  for  a  moment  before  the 
trap-door  descended  and  engulfed  them  all. 

Kismine  clutched  John's  arm. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  wildly,  "where  are  they  going? 
What  are  they  going  to  do  ? " 

"It  must  be  some  underground  way  of  escape " 

A  little  scream  from  the  two  girls  interrupted  his 
sentence. 

"Don't  you  see?"  sobbed  Kismine  hysterically. 
"The  mountain  is  wired !" 

Even  as  she  spoke  John  put  up  his  hands  to  shield 
his  sight.  Before  their  eyes  the  whole  surface  of  the 
mountain  had  changed  suddenly  to  a  dazzling  burning 
yellow,  which  showed  up  through  the  jacket  of  turf  as 
light  shows  through  a  human  hand.  For  a  moment 
the  intolerable  glow  continued,  and  then  like  an  extin 
guished  filament  it  disappeared,  revealing  a  black  waste 
from  which  blue  smoke  arose  slowly,  carrying  off  with 
it  what  remained  of  vegetation  and  of  human  flesh.  Of 
the  aviators  there  was  left  neither  blood  nor  bone — they 
were  consumed  as  completely  as  the  five  souls  who  had 
gone  inside. 

Simultaneously,  and  with  an  immense  concussion, 
the  chateau  literally  threw  itself  into  the  air,  bursting 
into  flaming  fragments  as  it  rose,  and  then  tumbling 
back  upon  itself  in  a  smoking  pile  that  lay  projecting 
half  into  the  water  of  the  lake.  There  was  no  fire — 
what  smoke  there  was  drifted  off  mingling  with  the 
sunshine,  and  for  a  few  minutes  longer  a  powdery  dust 
of  marble  drifted  from  the  great  featureless  pile  that 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     189 

had  once  been  the  house  of  jewels.     There  was  no  more 
sound  and  the  three  people  were  alone  in  the  valley. 


XI 

At  sunset  John  and  his  two  companions  reached  the 
high  cliff  which  had  marked  the  boundaries  of  the  Wash- 
ingtons'  dominion,  and  looking  back  found  the  valley  tran 
quil  and  lovely  in  the  dusk.  They  sat  down  to  finish  the 
food  which  Jasmine  had  brought  with  her  in  a  basket. 

"There!"  she  said,  as  she  spread  the  table-cloth  and 
put  the  sandwiches  in  a  neat  pile  upon  it.  "Don't  they 
look  tempting  ?  I  always  think  that  food  tastes  better 
outdoors." 

"With  that  remark,"  remarked  Kismine,  "Jasmine 
enters  the  middle  class." 

"Now,"  said  John  eagerly,  "turn  out  your  pocket  and 
let's  see  what  jewels  you  brought  along.  If  you  made 
a  good  selection  we  three  ought  to  live  comfortably  all 
the  rest  of  our  lives." 

Obediently  Kismine  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and 
tossed  two  handfuls  of  glittering  stones  before  him. 

"Not  so  bad,"  cried  John,  enthusiastically.  "They 
aren't  very  big,  but — Hello!"  His  expression  changed 
as  he  held  one  of  them  up  to  the  declining  sun.  "Why, 
these  aren't  diamonds !  There's  something  the  matter !" 

"By  golly!"  exclaimed  Kismine,  with  a  startled  look. 
"What  an  idiot  I  am!" 

"Why,  these  are  rhines tones !"  cried  John. 

"I  know."  She  broke  into  a  laugh.  "I  opened  the 
wrong  drawer.  They  belonged  on  the  dress  of  a  girl 
who  visited  Jasmine.  I  got  her  to  give  them  to  me  in 
exchange  for  diamonds.  I'd  never  seen  anything  but 
precious  stones  before." 

"And  this  is  what  you  brought  ?" 


igo  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"I'm  afraid  so."  She  fingered  the  brilliants  wist 
fully.  "I  think  I  like  these  better.  I'm  a  little  tired 
of  diamonds." 

"Very  well,"  said  John  gloomily.  "We'll  have  to 
live  in  Hades.  And  you  will  grow  old  telling  incredu 
lous  women  that  you  got  the  wrong  drawer.  Un 
fortunately  your  father's  bank-books  were  consumed 
with  him." 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  Hades  ?" 

"If  I  come  home  with  a  wife  at  my  age  my  father  is 
just  as  liable  as  not  to  cut  me  off  with  a  hot  coal,  as  they 
say  down  there." 

Jasmine  spoke  up. 

"I  love  washing,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  have  always 
washed  my  own  handkerchiefs.  I'll  take  in  laundry 
and  support  you  both." 

"Do  they  have  washwomen  in  Hades?"  asked  Kis- 
mine  innocently. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  John.  "  It's  just  like  anywhere 
else." 

"I  thought — perhaps  it  was  too  hot  to  wear  any 
clothes." 

John  laughed. 

"Just  try  it!"  he  suggested.  "They'll  run  you  out 
before  you're  half  started." 

"Will  father  be  there  ?"  she  asked. 

John  turned  to  her  in  astonishment. 

"Your  father  is  dead,"  he  replied  somberly.  "Why 
should  he  go  to  Hades?  You  have  it  confused  with 
another  place  that  was  abolished  long  ago." 

After  supper  they  folded  up  the  table-cloth  and  spread 
their  blankets  for  the  night. 

"What  a  dream  it  was,"  Kismine  sighed,  gazing  up 
at  the  stars.  "How  strange  it  seems  to  be  here  with  one 
dress  and  a  penniless  fiance ! 


THE  DIAMOND  AS  BIG  AS  THE  RITZ     191 

" Under  the  stars,"  she  repeated.  "I  never  noticed 
the  stars  before.  I  always  thought  of  them  as  great  big 
diamonds  that  belonged  to  some  one.  Now  they  frighten 
me.  They  make  me  feel  that  it  was  all  a  dream,  all  my 
youth." 

"It  was  a  dream,"  said  John  quietly.  "Everybody's 
youth  is  a  dream,  a  form  of  chemical  madness." 

"How  pleasant  then  to  be  insane!" 

"So  I'm  told,"  said  John  gloomily.  "I  don't  know 
any  longer.  At  any  rate,  let  us  love  for  a  while,  for  a 
year  or  so,  you  and  me.  That's  a  form  of  divine  drunk 
enness  that  we  can  all  try.  There  are  only  diamonds 
in  the  whole  world,  diamonds  and  perhaps  the  shabby 
gift  of  disillusion.  Well,  I  have  that  last  and  I  will 
make  the  usual  nothing  of  it."  He  shivered.  "Turn 
up  your  coat  collar,  little  girl,  the  night's  full  of  chill 
and  you'll  get  pneumonia.  His  was  a  great  sin  who 
first  invented  consciousness.  Let  us  lose  it  for  a  few 
hours." 

So  wrapping  himself  in  his  blanket  he  fell  off  to  sleep. 


THE  CURIOUS  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN 
BUTTON 

As  long  ago  as  1860  it  was  the  proper  thing  to  be  born 
at  home.  At  present,  so  I  am  told,  the  high  gods  of 
medicine  have  decreed  that  the  first  cries  of  the  young 
shall  be  uttered  upon  the  anesthetic  air  of  a  hospital, 
preferably  a  fashionable  one.  So  young  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Roger  Button  were  fifty  years  ahead  of  style  when  they 
decided,  one  day  in  the  summer  of  1860,  that  their  first 
baby  should  be  born  in  a  hospital.  Whether  this 
anachronism  had  any  bearing  upon  the  astonishing 
history  I  am  about  to  set  down  will  never  be  known. 

I  shall  tell  you  what  occurred,  and  let  you  judge  for 
yourself. 

The  Roger  Buttons  held  an  enviable  position,  both 
social  and  financial,  in  ante-bellum  Baltimore.  They 
were  related  to  the  This  Family  and  the  That  Family, 
which,  as  every  Southerner  knew,  entitled  them  to  mem 
bership  in  that  enormous  peerage  which  largely  popu 
lated  the  Confederacy.  This  was  their  first  experience 
with  the  charming  old  custom  of  having  babies — Mr. 
Button  was  naturally  nervous.  He  hoped  it  would  be 
a  boy  so  that  he  could  be  sent  to  Yale  College  in  Con 
necticut,  at  which  institution  Mr.  Button  himself  had 
been  known  for  four  years  by  the  somewhat  obvious 
nickname  of  "Cuff." 

On  the  September  morning  consecrated  to  the  enor 
mous  event  he  arose  nervously  at  six  o'clock,  dressed 
himself,  adjusted  an  impeccable  stock,  and  hurried  forth 
through  the  streets  of  Baltimore  to  the  hospital,  to  de- 

192 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     193 

termine  whether  the  darkness  of  the  night  had  borne  in 
new  life  upon  its  bosom. 

When  he  was  approximately  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  Maryland  Private  Hospital  for  Ladies  and  Gentle 
men  he  saw  Doctor  Keene,  the  family  physician,  de 
scending  the  front  steps,  rubbing  his  hands  together 
with  a  washing  movement — as  all  doctors  are  required 
to  do  by  the  unwritten  ethics  of  their  profession. 

Mr.  Roger  Button,  the  president  of  Roger  Button  & 
Co.,  Wholesale  Hardware,  began  to  run  toward  Doctor 
Keene  with  much  less  dignity  than  was  expected  from 
a  Southern  gentleman  of  that  picturesque  period. 
"Doctor  Keene  I"  he  called.  "Oh,  Doctor  Keene !" 

The  doctor  heard  him,  faced  around,  and  stood  wait 
ing,  a  curious  expression  settling  on  his  harsh,  medicinal 
face  as  Mr.  Button  drew  near. 

"What  happened?"  demanded  Mr.  Button,  as  he 
came  up  in  a  gasping  rush.  "What  was  it?  How  is 
she?  A  boy?  Who  is  it?  What 

"Talk  sense!"  said  Doctor  Keene  sharply.  He  ap 
peared  somewhat  irritated. 

"Is  the  child  born  ?"  begged  Mr.  Button. 

Doctor  Keene  frowned.  "Why,  yes,  I  suppose  so — 
after  a  fashion."  Again  he  threw  a  curious  glance  at 
Mr.  Button. 

"Is  my  wife  all  right?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl  ?" 

"Here  now!"  cried  Doctor  Keene  in  a  perfect  pas 
sion  of  irritation,  "I'll  ask  you  to  go  and  see  for  your 
self.  Outrageous!"  He  snapped  the  last  word  out  in 
almost  one  syllable,  then  he  turned  away  muttering: 
"Do  you  imagine  a  case  like  this  will  help  my  profes 
sional  reputation?  One  more  would  ruin  me — ruin 
anybody." 


i94  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Mr.  Button,  ap 
palled.  "Triplets?" 

"No,  not  triplets!"  answered  the  doctor  cuttingly. 
"What's  more,  you  can  go  and  see  for  yourself.  And 
get  another  doctor.  I  brought  you  into  the  world,  young 
man,  and  I've  been  physician  to  your  family  for  forty 
years,  but  I'm  through  with  you !  I  don't  want  to  see 
you  or  any  of  your  relatives  ever  again !  Good-by !" 

Then  he  turned  sharply,  and  without  another  word 
climbed  into  his  phaeton,  which  was  waiting  at  the  curb 
stone,  and  drove  severely  away. 

Mr.  Button  stood  there  upon  the  sidewalk,  stupefied 
and  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  What  horrible  mis 
hap  had  occurred  ?  He  had  suddenly  lost  all  desire  to  go 
into  the  Maryland  Private  Hospital  for  Ladies  and  Gen 
tlemen — it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that,  a  mo 
ment  later,  he  forced  himself  to  mount  the  steps  and 
enter  the  front  door. 

A  nurse  was  sitting  behind  a  desk  in  the  opaque 
gloom  of  the  hall.  Swallowing  his  shame,  Mr.  Button 
approached  her. 

"Good-morning,"  she  remarked,  looking  up  at  him 
pleasantly. 

"Good-morning.     I — I  am  Mr.  Button." 

At  this  a  look  of  utter  terror  spread  itself  over  the 
girl's  face.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and  seemed  about  to 
fly  from  the  hall,  restraining  herself  only  with  the  most 
apparent  difficulty. 

"I  want  to  see  my  child,"  said  Mr.  Button. 

The  nurse  gave  a  little  scream.  "Oh — of  course!" 
she  cried  hysterically.  "Up-stairs.  Right  up-stairs.  Go 
— up!" 

She  pointed  the  direction,  and  Mr.  Button,  bathed  in 
a  cool  perspiration,  turned  falteringly,  and  began  to 
mount  to  the  second  floor.  In  the  upper  hall  he  ad- 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     195 

dressed  another  nurse  who  approached  him,  basin  in 
hand.  "I'm  Mr.  Button,"  he  managed  to  articulate. 
"I  want  to  see  my " 

Clank!  The  basin  clattered  to  the  floor  and  rolled 
in  the  direction  of  the  stairs.  Clank !  Clank !  It  be 
gan  a  methodical  descent  as  if  sharing  in  the  general 
terror  which  this  gentleman  provoked. 

"I  want  to  see  my  child!"  Mr.  Button  almost 
shrieked.  He  was  on  the  verge  of  collapse. 

Clank !  The  basin  had  reached  the  first  floor.  The 
nurse  regained  control  of  herself,  and  threw  Mr.  Button 
a  look  of  hearty  contempt. 

"All  right ,  Mr.  Button,"  she  agreed  in  a  hushed  voice. 
"Very  well!  But  if  you  knew  what  state  it's  put  us  all 
in  this  morning !  It's  perfectly  outrageous !  The  hos 
pital  will  never  have  the  ghost  of  a  reputation  after— 

"Hurry!"  he  cried  hoarsely.     "I  can't  stand  this!" 

"Come  this  way,  then,  Mr.  Button." 

He  dragged  himself  after  her.  At  the  end  of  a  long 
hall  they  reached  a  room  from  which  proceeded  a  variety 
of  howls — indeed,  a  room  which,  in  later  parlance,  would 
have  been  known  as  the  "  crying-room."  They  entered. 
Ranged  around  the  walls  were  half  a  dozen  white- 
enameled  rolling  cribs,  each  with  a  tag  tied  at  the  head. 

"Well,"  gasped  Mr.  Button,  "which  is  mine?" 

"There!"  said  the  nurse. 

Mr.  Button's  eyes  followed  her  pointing  finger,  and 
this  is  what  he  saw.  Wrapped  in  a  voluminous  white 
blanket,  and  partially  crammed  into  one  of  the  cribs, 
there  sat  an  old  man  apparently  about  seventy  years  of 
age.  His  sparse  hair  was  almost  white,  and  from  his 
chin  dripped  a  long  smoke-colored  beard,  which  waved 
absurdly  back  and  forth,  fanned  by  the  breeze  coming 
in  at  the  window.  He  looked  up  at  Mr.  Button  with 
dim,  faded  eyes  in  which  lurked  a  puzzled  question. 


i96  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Am  I  mad?"  thundered  Mr.  Button,  his  terror  re 
solving  into  rage.  "  Is  this  some  ghastly  hospital  joke  ? " 

"It  doesn't  seem  like  a  joke  to  us,"  replied  the  nurse 
severely.  "And  I  don't  know  whether  you're  mad  or 
not — but  that  is  most  certainly  your  child." 

The  cool  perspiration  redoubled  on  Mr.  Button's 
forehead.  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  then,  opening  them, 
looked  again.  There  was  no  mistake — he  was  gazing  at 
a  man  of  threescore  and  ten — a  baby  of  threescore  and 
ten,  a  baby  whose  feet  hung  over  the  sides  of  the  crib 
in  which  it  was  reposing. 

The  old  man  looked  placidly  from  one  to  the  other 
for  a  moment,  and  then  suddenly  spoke  in  a  cracked  and 
ancient  voice.  "Are  you  my  father?"  he  demanded. 

Mr.  Button  and  the  nurse  started  violently. 

"Because  if  you  are,"  went  on  the  old  man  queru 
lously,  "I  wish  you'd  get  me  out  of  this  place — or,  at 
least,  get  them  to  put  a  comfortable  rocker  in  here." 

"Where  in  God's  name  did  you  come  from  ?  Who  are 
you  ?"  burst  out  Mr.  Button  frantically. 

"I  can't  tell  you  exactly  who  I  am,"  replied  the  queru 
lous  whine,  "because  I've  only  been  born  a  few  hours — 
but  my  last  name  is  certainly  Button." 

"You  lie !    You're  an  impostor !" 

The  old  man  turned  wearily  to  the  nurse.  "Nice 
way  to  welcome  a  new-born  child,"  he  complained  in  a 
weak  voice.  "Tell  him  he's  wrong,  why  don't  you  ?" 

"You're  wrong,  Mr.  Button,"  said  the  nurse  severely. 
"This  is  your  child,  and  you'll  have  to  make  the  best  of 
it.  We're  going  to  ask  you  to  take  him  home  with  you 
as  soon  as  possible — some  time  to-day." 

"Home?"  repeated  Mr.  Button  incredulously. 

"Yes,  we  can't  have  him  here.  We  really  can't, 
you  know?" 

"I'm  right  glad  of  it,"  whined  the  old  man.    "This  is 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     197 

a  fine  place  to  keep  a  youngster  of  quiet  tastes.  With 
all  this  yelling  and  howling,  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  a 
wink  of  sleep.  I  asked  for  something  to  eat" — here  his 
voice  rose  to  a  shrill  note  of  protest — -"and  they  brought 
me  a  bottle  of  milk!" 

Mr.  Button  sank  down  upon  a  chair  near  his  son  and 
concealed  his  face  in  his  hands.  "My  heavens!"  he 
murmured,  in  an  ecstasy  of  horror.  "What  will  people 
say?  What  must  I  do?" 

"You'll  have  to  take  him  home,"  insisted  the  nurse — 
"immediately!" 

A  grotesque  picture  formed  itself  with  dreadful 
clarity  before  the  eyes  of  the  tortured  man — a  picture  of 
himself  walking  through  the  crowded  streets  of  the  city 
with  this  appalling  apparition  stalking  by  his  side.  "I 
can't.  I  can't,"  he  moaned. 

People  would  stop  to  speak  to  him,  and  what  was  he 
going  to  say?  He  would  have  to  introduce  this — this 
septuagenarian:  "This  is  my  son,  born  early  this 
morning."  And  then  the  old  man  would  gather  his 
blanket  around  him  and  they  would  plod  on,  past  the 
bustling  stores,  the  slave  market — for  a  dark  instant 
Mr.  Button  wished  passionately  that  his  son  was  black 
— past  the  luxurious  houses  of  the  residential  district, 
past  the  home  for  the  aged.  .  .  . 

"Come!  Pull  yourself  together,"  commanded  the 
nurse. 

"See  here,"  the  old  man  announced  suddenly,  "if 
you  think  I'm  going  to  walk  home  in  this  blanket,  you're 
entirely  mistaken." 

"Babies  always  have  blankets." 

With  a  malicious  crackle  the  old  man  held  up  a  small 
white  swaddling  garment.  "Look!"  he  quavered. 
"  This  is  what  they  had  ready  for  me." 

"Babies  always  wear  those,"  said  the  nurse  primly. 


198  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "this  baby's  not  going  to 
wear  anything  in  about  two  minutes.  This  blanket 
itches.  They  might  at  least  have  given  me  a  sheet." 

"  Keep  it  on !  Keep  it  on ! "  said  Mr.  Button  hurriedly. 
He  turned  to  the  nurse.  " What'll  I  do  ?" 

"  Go  down  town  and  buy  your  son  some  clothes." 

Mr.  Button's  son's  voice  followed  him  down  into  the 
hall:  "And  a  cane,  father.  I  want  to  have  a  cane." 

Mr.  Button  banged  the  outer  door  savagely.  .  .  . 

II 

"Good-morning,"  Mr.  Button  said,  nervously,  to  the 
clerk  in  the  Chesapeake  Dry  Goods  Company.  "I  want 
to  buy  some  clothes  for  my  child." 

"How  old  is  your  child,  sir?" 

"About  six  hours,"  answered  Mr.  Button,  without 
due  consideration. 

"Babies'  supply  department  in  the  rear." 

"Why,  I  don't  think— I'm  not  sure  that's  what  I 
want.  It's — he's  an  unusually  large-size  child.  Ec- 
ceptionally — ah — large. " 

"They  have  the  largest  child's  sizes." 

"Where  is  the  boys'  department?"  inquired  Mr. 
Button,  shifting  his  ground  desperately.  He  felt  that 
the  clerk  must  surely  scent  his  shameful  secret. 

"Right  here." 

"Well — "  He  hesitated.  The  notion  of  dressing  his 
son  in  men's  clothes  was  repugnant  to  him.  If,  say, 
he  could  only  find  a  very  large  boy's  suit,  he  might  cut 
off  that  long  and  awful  beard,  dye  the  white  hair  brown, 
and  thus  manage  to  conceal  the  worst,  and  to  retain 
something  of  his  own  self-respect — not  to  mention  his 
position  in  Baltimore  society. 

But  a  frantic  inspection  of  the  boys'  department  re- 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     199 

vealed  no  suits  to  fit  the  new-born  Button.  He  blamed 
the  store,  of  course — in  such  cases  it  is  the  thing  to  blame 
the  store. 

"How  old  did  you  say  that  boy  of  yours  was?"  de 
manded  the  clerk  curiously. 

"He's— sixteen." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  you  said  six  hours. 
You'll  find  the  youths'  department  in  the  next  aisle." 

Mr.  Button  turned  miserably  away.  Then  he  stopped, 
brightened,  and  pointed  his  finger  toward  a  dressed 
dummy  in  the  window  display.  "  There ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"I'll  take  that  suit,  out  there  on  the  dummy." 

The  clerk  stared.  "Why,"  he  protested,  "that's  not 
a  child's  suit.  At  least  it  is,  but  it's  for  fancy  dress. 
You  could  wear  it  yourself ! " 

"Wrap  it  up,"  insisted  his  customer  nervously. 
"That's  what  I  want." 

The  astonished  clerk  obeyed. 

Back  at  the  hospital  Mr.  Button  entered  the  nursery 
and  almost  threw  the  package  at  his  son.  "Here's  your 
clothes,"  he  snapped  out. 

The  old  man  untied  the  package  and  viewed  the  con 
tents  with  a  quizzical  eye. 

"They  look  sort  of  funny  to  me,"  he  complained. 
"I  don't  want  to  be  made  a  monkey  of " 

"You've  made  a  monkey  of  me!"  retorted  Mr.  But 
ton  fiercely.  "Never  you  mind  how  funny  you  look. 
Put  them  on — or  I'll — or  I'll  spank  you."  He  swal 
lowed  uneasily  at  the  penultimate  word,  feeling  never 
theless  that  it  was  the  proper  thing  to  say. 

"All  right,  father" — this  with  a  grotesque  simula 
tion  of  filial  respect — "you've  lived  longer;  you  know 
best.  Just  as  you  say." 

As  before,  the  sound  of  the  word  "father"  caused 
Mr.  Button  to  start  violently. 


200  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"And  hurry." 

"I'm  hurrying,  father." 

When  his  son  was  dressed  Mr.  Button  regarded  him 
with  depression.  The  costume  consisted  of  dotted  socks, 
pink  pants,  and  a  belted  blouse  with  a  wide  white  collar. 
Over  the  latter  waved  the  long  whitish  beard,  drooping 
almost  to  the  waist.  The  effect  was  not  good. 

"Wait!" 

Mr.  Button  seized  a  hospital  shears  and  with  three 
quick  snaps  amputated  a  large  section  of  the  beard.  But 
even  with  this  improvement  the  ensemble  fell  far  short 
of  perfection.  The  remaining  brush  of  scraggly  hair, 
the  watery  eyes,  the  ancient  teeth,  seemed  oddly  out  of 
tone  with  the  gayety  of  the  costume.  Mr.  Button, 
however,  was  obdurate — he  held  out  his  hand.  "  Come 
along!"  he  said  sternly. 

His  son  took  the  hand  trustingly.  "What  are  you 
going  to  call  me,  dad  ?"  he  quavered  as  they  walked  from 
the  nursery — "just  'baby'  for  a  while  ?  till  you  think  of 
a  better  name?" 

Mr.  Button  grunted.  "I  don't  know,"  he  answered 
harshly.  "I  think  we'll  call  you  Methuselah." 

Ill 

Even  after  the  new  addition  to  the  Button  family 
had  had  his  hair  cut  short  and  then  dyed  to  a  sparse  un 
natural  black,  had  had  his  face  shaved  so  close  that  it 
glistened,  and  had  been  attired  in  small-boy  clothes  made 
to  order  by  a  flabbergasted  tailor,  it  was  impossible  for 
Mr.  Button  to  ignore  the  fact  that  his  son  was  a  poor 
excuse  for  a  first  family  baby.  Despite  his  aged  stoop, 
Benjamin  Button — for  it  was  by  this  name  they  called 
him  instead  of  by  the  appropriate  but  invidious  Methuse 
lah — was  five  feet  eight  inches  tall.  His  clothes  did  not 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     201 

conceal  this,  nor  did  the  clipping  and  dyeing  of  his 
eyebrows  disguise  the  fact  that  the  eyes  underneath 
were  faded  and  watery  and  tired.  In  fact,  the  baby- 
nurse  who  had  been  engaged  in  advance  left  the  house 
after  one  /ook,  in  a  state  of  considerable  indignation. 

But  Mjl  Button  persisted  in  his  unwavering  purpose. 
Benjamin  was  a  baby,  and  a  baby  he  should  remain. 
At  first  he  declared  that  if  Benjamin  didn't  like  warm 
milk  he  could  go  without  food  altogether,  but  he  was 
finally  prevailed  upon  to  allow  his  son  bread  and  butter, 
and  even  oatmeal  by  way  of  a  compromise.  One  day 
he  brought  home  a  rattle  and,  giving  it  to  Benjamin, 
insisted  in  no  uncertain  terms  that  he  should  "play 
with  it,"  whereupon  the  old  man  took  it  with  a  weary 
expression  and  could  be  heard  jingling  it  obediently  at 
intervals  throughout  the  day. 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  though,  that  the  rattle  bored 
him,  and  that  he  found  other  and  more  soothing  amuse 
ments  when  he  was  left  alone.  For  instance,  Mr.  But 
ton  discovered  one  day  that  during  the  preceding  week 
he  had  smoked  more  cigars  than  ever  before — a  phe 
nomenon  which  was  explained  a  few  days  later  when, 
entering  the  nursery  unexpectedly,  he  found  the  room 
full  of  faint  blue  haze  and  Benjamin,  with  a  guilty  ex 
pression  on  his  face,  trying  to  conceal  the  butt  of  a  dark 
Havana.  This,  of  course,  called  for  a  severe  spanking, 
but  Mr.  Button  found  that  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  administer  it.  He  merely  warned  his  son  that  he 
would  "stunt  his  growth." 

Nevertheless  he  persisted  in  his  attitude.  He  brought 
home  lead  soldiers,  he  brought  toy  trains,  he  brought 
large  pleasant  animals  made  of  cotton,  and,  to  perfect 
the  illusion  which  he  was  creating — for  himself  at  least — 
he  passionately  demanded  of  the  clerk  in  the  toy-store 
whether  "the  paint  would  come  off  the  pink  duck  if  the 


202  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

baby  put  it  in  his  mouth."  But,  despite  all  his  father's 
efforts,  Benjamin  refused  to  be  interested.  He  would 
steal  down  the  back  stairs  and  return  to  the  nursery 
with  a  volume  of  the  "Encyclopaedia  Britannica,"  over 
which  he  would  pore  through  an  afternoon,'  while  his 
cotton  cows  and  his  Noah's  ark  were  left  neglected  on 
the  floor.  Against  such  a  stubbornness  Mr.  Button's 
efforts  were  of  little  avail. 

The  sensation  created  in  Baltimore  was,  at  first, 
prodigious.  What  the  mishap  would  have  cost 'the  But 
tons  and  their  kinsfolk  socially  cannot  be  determined, 
for  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  drew  the  city's  atten 
tion  to  other  things.  A  few  people  who  were  unfailingly 
polite  racked  their  brains  for  compliments  to  give  to  the 
parents — and  finally  hit  upon  the  ingenious  device  of 
declaring  that  the  baby  resembled  his  grandfather,  a 
fact  which,  due  to  the  standard  state  of  decay  common 
to  all  men  of  seventy,  could  not  be  denied.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Roger  Button  were  not  pleased,  and  Benjamin's 
grandfather  was  furiously  insulted. 

Benjamin,  once  he  left  the  hospital,  took  life  as  he 
found  it.  Several  small  boys  were  brought  to  see  him, 
and  he  spent  a  stiff-jointed  afternoon  trying  to  work  up 
an  interest  in  tops  and  marbles — he  even  managed,  quite 
accidentally,  to  break  a  kitchen  window  with  a  stone 
from  a  sling  shot,  a  feat  which  secretly  delighted  his 
father. 

Thereafter  Benjamin  contrived  to  break  something 
every  day,  but  he  did  these  things  only  because  they 
were  expected  of  him,  and  because  he  was  by  nature 
obliging. 

When  his  grandfather's  initial  antagonism  wore  off, 
Benjamin  and  that  gentleman  took  enormous  pleasure  in 
one  another's  company.  They  would  sit  for  hours,  these 
two  so  far  apart  in  age  and  experience,  and,  like  old 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     203 

cronies,  discuss  with  tireless  monotony  the  slow  events 
of  the  day.  Benjamin  felt  more  at  ease  in  his  grand 
father's  presence  than  in  his  parents' — they  seemed  al 
ways  somewhat  in  awe  of  him  and,  despite  the  dicta 
torial  authority  they  exercised  over  him,  frequently 
addressed  him  as  "Mr." 

He  was  as  puzzled  as  any  one  else  at  the  apparently 
advanced  age  of  his  mind  and  body  at  birth.  He  read 
up  on  it  in  the  medical  journal,  but  found  that  no  such 
case  had  been  previously  recorded.  At  his  father's 
urging  he  made  an  honest  attempt  to  play  with  other 
boys,  and  frequently  he  joined  in  the  milder  games- 
football  shook  him  up  too  much,  and  he  feared  that  in 
case  of  a  fracture  his  ancient  bones  would  refuse  to  knit. 

When  he  was  five  he  was  sent  to  kindergarten,  where 
he  was  initiated  into  the  art  of  pasting  green  paper  on 
orange  paper,  of  weaving  colored  maps  and  manufac 
turing  eternal  cardboard  necklaces.  He  was  inclined 
to  drowse  off  to  sleep  in  the  middle  of  these  tasks,  a  habit 
which  both  irritated  and  frightened  his  young  teacher. 
To  his  relief  she  complained  to  his  parents,  and  he  was 
removed  from  the  school.  The  Roger  Buttons  told 
their  friends  that  they  felt  he  was  too  young. 

By  the  time  he  was  twelve  years  old  his  parents  had 
grown  used  to  him.  Indeed,  so  strong  is  the  force  of 
custom  that  they  no  longer  felt  that  he  was  different 
from  any  other  child — except  when  some  curious  anomaly 
reminded  them  of  the  fact.  But  one  day  a  few  weeks 
after  his  twelfth  birthday,  while  looking  in  the  mirror, 
Benjamin  made,  or  thought  he  made,  an  astonishing  dis 
covery.  Did  his  eyes  deceive  him,  or  had  his  hair 
turned  in  the  dozen  years  of  his  life  from  white  to  iron- 
gray  under  its  concealing  dye  ?  Was  the  network  of 
wrinkles  on  his  f -'  ce  becoming  less  pronounced  ?  Was 
his  skin  healthier  firmer,  with  even  a  touch  of  ruddy 


204  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

winter  color  ?  He  could  not  tell.  He  knew  that  he  no 
longer  stooped  and  that  his  physical  condition  had  im 
proved  since  the  early  days  of  his  life. 

"Can  it  be ?"  he  thought  to  himself,  or,  rather, 

scarcely  dared  to  think. 

He  went  to  his  father.  "I  am  grown,"  he  announced 
determinedly.  "I  want  to  put  on  long  trousers." 

His  father  hesitated.  "Well,"  he  said  finally,  "I 
don't  know.  Fourteen  is  the  age  for  putting  on  long 
trousers — and  you  are  only  twelve." 

"But  you'll  have  to  admit,"  protested  Benjamin, 
"that  I'm  big  for  my  age." 

His  father  looked  at  him  with  illusory  speculation. 
"Oh,  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  said.  "I  was  as  big 
as  you  when  I  was  twelve." 

This  was  not  true — it  was  all  part  of  Roger  Button's 
silent  agreement  with  himself  to  believe  in  his  son's 
normality. 

Finally  a  compromise  was  reached.  Benjamin  was  to 
continue  to  dye  his  hair.  He  was  to  make  a  better 
attempt  to  play  with  boys  of  his  own  age.  He  was  not 
to  wear  his  spectacles  or  carry  a  cane  in  the  street.  In 
return  for  these  concessions  he  was  allowed  his  first 
suit  of  long  trousers.  .  .  . 

IV 

Of  the  life. of  Benjamin  Button  between  his  twelfth 
and  twenty-first  year  I  intend  to  say  little.  Suffice  to 
record  that  they  were  years  of  normal  ungrowth.  When 
Benjamin  was  eighteen  he  was  erect  as  a  man  of  fifty; 
he  had  more  hair  and  it  was  of  a  dark  gray;  his  step 
was  firm,  his  voice  had  lost  its  cracked  quaver  and  des 
cended  to  a  healthy  baritone.  So  his  father  sent  him  up 
to  Connecticut  to  take  examinations  for  entrance  to 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     205 

Yale  College.  Benjamin  passed  his  examination  and  be 
came  a  member  of  the  freshman  class. 

On  the  third  day  following  his  matriculation  he  re 
ceived  a  notification  from  Mr.  Hart,  the  college  regis 
trar,  to  call  at  his  office  and  arrange  his  schedule.  Ben 
jamin,  glancing  in  the  mirror,  decided  that  his  hair  needed 
a  new  application  of  its  brown  dye,  but  an  anxious  in 
spection  of  his  bureau  drawer  disclosed  that  the  dye 
bottle  was  not  there.  Then  he  remembered — he  had 
emptied  it  the  day  before  and  thrown  it  away. 

He  was  in  a  dilemma.  He  was  due  at  the  registrar's 
in  five  minutes.  There  seemed  to  be  no  help  for  it — he 
must  go  as  he  was.  He  did. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  the  registrar  politely.  "  You  Ve 
come  to- inquire  about  your  son." 

"Why,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  my  name's  Button — "  be 
gan  Benjamin,  but  Mr.  Hart^cut  him  off.1 

"I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Button.  I'm  ex 
pecting  your  son  here  any  minute." 

"That's  me !"  burst  out  Benjamin.   "I'm  a  freshman." 

"What!" 

"I'm  a  freshman." 

"Surelv  you're  joking." 

"Not  at  all." 

The  registrar  frowned  and  glanced  at  a  card  before 
him.  "Why,  I  have  Mr.  Benjamin  Button's  age  down 
here  as  eighteen." 

"That's  my  age,"  asserted  Benjamin,  flushing  slightly. 

The  registrar  eyed  him  wearily.  "Now  surely,  Mr. 
Button,  you  don't  expect  me  to  believe  that." 

Benjamin  smiled  wearily.  "I  am  eighteen,"  he  re 
peated. 

The  registrar  pointed  sternly  to  the  door.  "  Get  out," 
he  said.  "  Get  out  of  college  and  get  out  of  town.  You 
are  a  dangerous  lunatic." 


206  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"I  am  eighteen." 

Mr.  Hart  opened  the  door.  "The  idea !"  he  shouted. 
"A  man  of  your  age  trying  to  enter  here  as  a  freshman. 
Eighteen  years  old,  are  you  ?  Well,  I'll  give  you  eigh 
teen  minutes  to  get  out  of  town." 

Benjamin  Button  walked  with  dignity  from  the  room, 
and  half  a  dozen  undergraduates,  who  were  waiting  in 
the  hall,  followed  him  curiously  with  their  eyes.  When 
he  had  gone  a  little  way  he  turned  around,  faced  the  in 
furiated  registrar,  who  was  still  standing  in  the  doorway, 
and  repeated  in  a  firm  voice:  "I  am  eighteen  years  old." 

To  a  chorus  of  titters  which  went  up  from  the  group  of 
undergraduates,  Benjamin  walked  away. 

But  he  was  not  fated  to  escape  so  easily.  On  his 
melancholy  walk  to  the  railroad  station  he  found  that 
he  was  being  followed  by  a  group,  then  by  a  swarm, 
and  finally  by  a  dense  mass  of  undergraduates.  The 
word  had  gone  around  that  a  lunatic  had  passed  the  en 
trance  examinations  for  Yale  and  attempted  to  palm 
himself  off  as  a  youth  of  eighteen.  A  fever  of  excite 
ment  permeated  the  college.  Men  ran  hatless  out  of 
classes,  the  football  team  abandoned  its  practice  and 
joined  the  mob,  professors'  wives  with  bonnets  awry 
and  bustles  out  of  position,  ran  shouting  after  the  pro 
cession,  from  which  proceeded  a  continual  succession  of 
remarks  aimed  at  the  tender  sensibilities  of  Benjamin 
Button. 

"  He  must  be  the  Wandering  Jew ! " 

"He  ought  to  go  to  prep  school  at  his  age !" 

"Look  at  the  infant  prodigy!" 

"He  thought  this  was  the  old  men's  home." 

"Go  up  to  Harvard!" 

Benjamin  increased  his  gait,  and  soon  he  was  running. 
He  would  show  them !  He  would  go  to  Harvard,  and 
then  they  would  regret  these  ill-considered  taunts ! 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     207 

Safely  on  board  the  train  for  Baltimore,  he  put  his 
head  from  the  window.  " You'll  regret  this!"  he 
shouted. 

"Ha-ha!"  the  undergraduates  laughed.  "Ha-ha- 
ha ! "  It  was  the  biggest  mistake  that  Yale  College  had 
ever  made. 


In  1880  Benjamin  Button  was  twenty  years  old,  and 
he  signalized  his  birthday  by  going  to  work  for  his  father 
in  Roger  Button  &  Co.,  Wholesale  Hardware.  It  was 
in  that  same  year  that  he  began  "going  out  socially "- 
that  is,  his  father  insisted  on  taking  him  to  several 
fashionable  dances.  Roger  Button  was  now  fifty,  and 
he  and  his  son  were  more  and  more  companionable — in 
fact,  since  Benjamin  had  ceased  to  dye  his  hair  (which 
was  still  grayish)  they  appeared  about  the  same  age, 
and  could  have  passed  for  brothers. 

One  night  in  August  they  got  into  the  phaeton  attired 
in  their  full-dress  suits  and  drove  out  to  a  dance  at  the 
Shevlins'  country  house,  situated  just  outside  of  Balti 
more.  It  was  a  gorgeous  evening.  A  full  moon  drenched 
the  road  to  the  lustreless  color  of  platinum,  and  late- 
blooming  harvest  flowers  breathed  into  the  motionless 
air  aromas  that  were  like  low,  half-heard  laughter.  The 
open  country,  carpeted  for  rods  around  with  bright 
wheat,  was  translucent  as  in  the  day.  It  was  almost 
impossible  not  to  be  affected  by  the  sheer  beauty  of 
the  sky — almost. 

"There's  a  great  future  in  the  dry-goods : business," 
Roger  Button  was  saying.  He  was  not  a  spiritual 
man — his  esthetic  sense  was  rudimentary. 

"Old  fellows  like  me  can't  learn  new  tricks,"  he  ob 
served  profoundly.  "It's  you  youngsters  with  energy 
and  vitality  that  have  the  great  future  before  you." 


208  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Far  up  the  road  the  lights  of  the  Shevlins'  country 
house  drifted  into  view,  and  presently  there  was  a  sigh 
ing  sound  that  crept  persistently  toward  them — it 
might  have  been  the  fine  plaint  of  violins  or  the  rustle 
of  the  silver  wheat  under  the  moon. 

They  pulled  up  behind  a  handsome  brougham  whose 
passengers  were  disembarking  at  the  door.  A  lady  got 
out,  then  an  elderly  gentleman,  then  another  young 
lady,  beautiful  as  sin.  Benjamin  started;  an  almost 
chemical  change  seemed  to  dissolve  and  recompose  the 
very  elements  of  his  body.  A  rigor  passed  over  him, 
blood  rose  into  his  cheeks,  his  forehead,  and  there  was  a 
steady  thumping  in  his  ears.  It  was  first  love. 

The  girl  was  slender  and  frail,  with  hair  that  was  ashen 
under  the  moon  and  honey-colored  under  the  sputtering 
gas-lamps  of  the  porch.  Over  her  shoulders  was  thrown 
a  Spanish  mantilla  of  softest  yellow,  butterflied  in  black; 
her  feet  were  glittering  buttons  at  the  hem  of  her  bustled 
dress. 

Roger  Button  leaned  over  to  his  son.  "That,"  he 
said,  "is  young  Hildegarde  Moncrief,  the  daughter  of 
General  Moncrief." 

Benjamin  nodded  coldly.  "Pretty  little  thing,"  he 
said  indifferently.  But  when  the  negro  boy  had  led 
the  buggy  away,  he  added:  "Dad,  you  might  introduce 
me  to  her." 

They  approached  a  group  of  which  Miss  Moncrief 
was  the  centre.  Reared  in  the  old  tradition,  she  courte- 
sied  low  before  Benjamin.  Yes,  he  might  have  a  dance. 
He  thanked  her  and  walked  away — staggered  away. 

The  interval  until  the  time  for  his  turn  should  arrive 
dragged  itself  out  interminably.  He  stood  close  to  the 
wall,  silent,  inscrutable,  watching  with  murderous  eyes 
the  young  bloods  of  Baltimore  as  they  eddied  around 
Hildegarde  Moncrief,  passionate  admiration  in  their 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     209 

faces.  How  obnoxious  they  seemed  to  Benjamin;  how 
intolerably  rosy !  Their  curling  brown  whiskers  aroused 
in  him  a  feeling  equivalent  to  indigestion. 

But  when  his  own  time  came,  and  he  drifted  with  her 
out  upon  the  changing  floor  to  the  music  of  the  latest 
waltz  from  Paris,  his  jealousies  and  anxieties  melted 
from  him  like  a  mantle  of  snow.  Blind  with  enchant 
ment,  he  felt  that  life  was  just  beginning. 

"You  and  your  brother  got  here  just  as  we  did,  didn't 
you?"  asked  Hildegarde,  looking  up  at  him  with  eyes 
that  were  like  bright  blue  enamel. 

Benjamin  hesitated.  If  she  took  him  for  his  father's 
brother,  would  it  be  best  to  enlighten  her  ?  He  remem 
bered  his  experience  at  Yale,  so  he  decided  against  it. 
It  would  be  rude  to  contradict  a  lady;  it  would  be  crimi 
nal  to  mar  this  exquisite  occasion  with  the  grotesque 
story  of  his  origin.  Later,  perhaps.  So  he  nodded, 
smiled,  listened,  was  happy. 

"I  like  men  of  your  age,"  Hildegarde  told  him. 
"Young  boys  are  so  idiotic.  They  tell  me  how  much 
champagne  they  drink  at  college,  and  how  much  money 
they  lose  playing  cards.  Men  of  your  age  know  how  to 
appreciate  women." 

Benjamin  felt  himself  on  the  verge  of  a  proposal — 
with  an  effort  he  choked  back  the  impulse. 

"You're  just  the  romantic  age/'  she  continued — 
"fifty.  Twenty-five  is  too  worldly-wise;  thirty  is  apt  to 
be  pale  from  overwork;  forty  is  the  age  of  long  stories 
that  take  a  whole  cigar  to  tell;  sixty  is — oh,  sixty  is  too 
near  seventy;  but  fifty  is  the  mellow  age.  I  love  fifty." 

Fifty  seemed  to  Benjamin  a  glorious  age.  He  longed 
passionately  to  be  fifty. 

"I've  always  said,"  went  on  Hildegarde,  "that  I'd 
rather  marry  a  man  of  fifty  and  be  taken  care  of  than 
marry  a  man  of  thirty  and  take  care  of  him." 


2io  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

For  Benjamin  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  bathed  in  a 
honey-colored  mist.  Hildegarde  gave  him  two  more 
dances,  and  they  discovered  that  they  were  marvellously 
in  accord  on  all  the  questions  of  the  day.  She  was  to 
go  driving  with  him  on  the  following  Sunday,  and  then 
they  would  discuss  all  these  questions  further. 

Going  home  in  the  phaeton  just  before  the  crack  of 
dawn,  when  the  first  bees  were  humming  and  the  fading 
moon  glimmered  in  the  cool  dew,  Benjamin  knew  vaguely 
that  his  father  was  discussing  wholesale  hardware. 

".  .  .  .  And  what  do  you  think  should  merit  our 
biggest  attention  after  hammers  and  nails  ? "  the  elder 
Button  was  saying. 

"Love,"  replied  Benjamin  absent-mindedly. 

"Lugs?"  exclaimed  Roger  Button.  "Why,  I've  just 
covered  the  question  of  lugs." 

Benjamin  regarded  him  with  dazed  eyes  just  as  the 
eastern  sky  was  suddenly  cracked  with  light,  and  an 
oriole  yawned  piercingly  in  the  quickening  trees.  .  .  . 

VI 

When,  six  months  later,  the  engagement  of  Miss 
Hildegarde  Moncrief  to  Mr.  Benjamin  Button  was  made 
known  (I  say  "made  known,"  for  General  Moncrief  de 
clared  he  would  rather  fall  upon  his  sword  than  announce 
it),  the  excitement  in  Baltimore  society  reached  a  fever 
ish  pitch.  The  almost  forgotten  story  of  Benjamin's 
birth  was  remembered  and  sent  out  upon  the  winds  of 
scandal  in  picaresque  and  incredible  forms.  It  was  said 
that  Benjamin  was  really  the  father  of  Roger  Button, 
that  he  was  his  brother  who  had  been  in  prison  for  forty 
years,  that  he  was  John  Wilkes  Booth  in  disguise — and, 
finally,  that  he  had  two  small  conical  horns  sprouting 
from  his  head. 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     211 

The  Sunday  supplements  of  the  New  York  papers 
played  up  the  case  with  fascinating  sketches  which 
showed  the  head  of  Benjamin  Button  attached  to  a  fish, 
to  a  snake,  and,  finally,  to  a  body  of  solid  brass.  He  be 
came  known,  journalistically,  as  the  Mystery  Man  of 
Maryland.  But  the  true  story,  as  is  usually  the  case, 
had  a  very  small  circulation. 

However,  every  one  agreed  with  General  Moncrief 
that  it  was  "criminal"  for  a  lovely  girl  who  could  have 
married  any  beau  in  Baltimore  to  throw  herself  into  the 
arms  of  a  man  who  was  assuredly  fifty.  In  vain  Mr. 
Roger  Button  published  his  son's  birth  certificate  in 
large  type  in  the  Baltimore  Blaze.  No  one  believed  it. 
You  had  only  to  look  at  Benjamin  and  see. 

On  the  part  of  the  two  people  most  concerned  there 
was  no  wavering.  So  many  of  the  stories  about  her 
fiance  were  false  that  Hildegarde  refused  stubbornly  to 
believe  even  the  true  one.  In  vain  General  Moncrief 
pointed  out  to  her  the  high  mortality  among  men  of 
fifty — or,  at  least,  among  men  who  looked  fifty;  in  vain 
he  told  her  of  the  instability  of  the  wholesale  hardware 
business.  Hildegarde  had  chosen  to  marry  for  mellow 
ness — and  marry  she  did.  .  .  . 

VII 

In  one  particular,  at  least,  the  friends  of  Hildegarde 
Moncrief  were  mistaken.  The  wholesale  hardware  busi 
ness  prospered  amazingly.  In  the  fifteen  years  between 
Benjamin  Button's  marriage  in  1880  and  his  father's  re 
tirement  in  1895,  the  family  fortune  was  doubled — and 
this  was  due  largely  to  the  younger  member  of  the  firm. 

Needless  to  say,  Baltimore  eventually  received  the 
couple  to  its  bosom.  Even  old  General  Moncrief  be 
came  reconciled  to  his  son-in-law  when  Benjamin  gave 


212  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

him  the  money  to  bring  out  his  "History  of  the  Civil 
War"  in  twenty  volumes,  which  had  been  refused  by» 
nine  prominent  publishers. 

In  Benjamin  himself  fifteen  years  had  wrought  many 
changes.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  blood  flowed  with 
new  vigor  through  his  veins.  It  began  to  be  a  pleasure 
to  rise  in  the  morning,  to  walk  with  an  active  step  along 
the  busy,  sunny  street,  to  work  untiringly  with  his  ship 
ments  of  hammers  and  his  cargoes  of  nails.  It  was  in 
1890  that  he  executed  his  famous  business  coup:  he 
brought  up  the  suggestion  that  all  nails  used  in  nailing 
up  the  boxes  in  which  nails  are  shipped  are  the  property  of 
the  shippee,  a  proposal  which  became  a  statute,  was  ap 
proved  by  Chief  Justice  Fossile,  and  saved  Roger  Button 
and  Company,  Wholesale  Hardware,  more  than  six  hun 
dred  nails  every  year. 

In  addition,  Benjamin  discovered  that  he  was  becom 
ing  more  and  more  attracted  by  the  gay  side  of  life.  It 
was  typical  of  his  growing  enthusiasm  for  pleasure  that 
he  was  the  first  man  in  the  city  of  Baltimore  to  own  and 
run  an  automobile.  Meeting  him  on  the  street,  his  con 
temporaries  would  stare  enviously  at  the  picture  he  made 
of  health  and  vitality. 

"He  seems  to  grow  younger  every  year,"  they  would 
remark.  And  if  old  Roger  Button,  now  sixty-five  years 
old,  had  failed  at  first  to  give  a  proper  welcome  to  his 
son  he  atoned  at  last  by  bestowing  on  him  what 
amounted  to  adulation. 

And  here  we  come  to  an  unpleasant  subject  which  it 
will  be  well  to  pass  over  as  quickly  as  possible.  There 
was  only  one  thing  that  worried  Benjamin  Button:  his 
wife  had  ceased  to  attract  him. 

At  that  time  Hildegarde  was  a  woman  of  thirty-five, 
with  a  son,  Roscoe,  fourteen  years  old.  In  the  early 
days  of  their  marriage  Benjamin  had  worshipped  her. 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     213 

But,  as  the  years  passed,  her  honey-colored  hair  became 
an  unexciting  brown,  the  blue  enamel  of  her  eyes  assumed 
the  aspect  of  cheap  crockery — moreover,  and  most  of 
all,  she  had  become  too  settled  in  her  ways,  too  placid, 
too  content,  too  anemic  in  her  excitements,  and  too 
sober  in  her  taste.  As  a  bride  it  had  been  she  who  had 
"dragged"  Benjamin  to  dances  and  dinners — now  con 
ditions  were  reversed.  She  went  out  socially  with  him, 
but  without  enthusiasm,  devoured  already  by  that 
eternal  inertia  which  comes  to  live  with  each  of  us  one 
day  and  stays  with  us  to  the  end. 

Benjamin's  discontent  waxed  stronger.  At  the  out 
break  of  the  Spanish-American  War  in  1898  his  home  had 
for  him  so  little  charm  that  he  decided  to  join  the  army. 
With  his  business  influence  he  obtained  a  commission  as 
captain,  and  proved  so  adaptable  to  the  work  that  he 
was  made  a  major,  and  finally  a  lieutenant-colonel  just 
in  time  to  participate  in  the  celebrated  charge  up  San 
Juan  Hill.  He  was  slightly  wounded,  and  received  a 
medal. 

Benjamin  had  become  so  attached  to  the  activity  and 
excitement  of  army  life  that  he  regretted  to  give  it  up, 
but  his  business  required  attention,  so  he  resigned  his 
commission  and  came  home.  He  was  met  at  the  station 
by  a  brass  band  and  escorted  to  his  house. 

VIII 

Hildegarde,  waving  a  large  silk  flag,  greeted  him  on 
the  porch,  and  even  as  he  kissed  her  he  felt  with  a  sink 
ing  of  the  heart  that  these  three  years  had  taken  their 
toll.  She  was  a  woman  of  forty  now,  with  a  faint 
skirmish  line  of  gray  hairs  in  her  head.  The  sight  de 
pressed  him. 

Up  in  his  room  he  saw  his  reflection  in  the  familiar 


2i4  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

mirror — he  went  closer  and  examined  his  own  face 
with  anxiety,  comparing  it  after  a  moment  with  a  photo 
graph  of  himself  in  uniform  taken  just  before  the  war. 

"  Good  Lord ! "  he  said  aloud.  The  process  was  con 
tinuing.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it — he  looked  now  like 
a  man  of  thirty.  Instead  of  being  delighted,  he  was  un 
easy — he  was  growing  younger.  He  had  hitherto  hoped 
that  once  he  reached  a  bodily  age  equivalent  to  his  age 
in  years,  the  grotesque  phenomenon  which  had  marked 
his  birth  would  cease  to  function.  He  shuddered.  His 
destiny  seemed  to  him  awful,  incredible. 

When  he  came  down-stairs  Hildegarde  was  waiting 
for  him.  She  appeared  annoyed,  and  he  wondered  if 
she  had  at  last  discovered  that  there  was  something 
amiss.  It  was  with  an  effort  to  relieve  the  tension  be 
tween  them  that  he  broached  the  matter  at  dinner  in 
what  he  considered  a  delicate  way. 

"Well,"  he  remarked  lightly,  "everybody  says  I 
look  younger  than  ever." 

Hildegarde  regarded  him  with  scorn.  She  sniffed. 
"Do  you  think  it's  anything  to  boast  about?" 

"I'm  not  boasting,"  he  asserted  uncomfortably. 

She  sniffed  again.  "The  idea,"  she  said,  and  after  a 
moment:  "I  should  think  you'd  have  enough  pride  to 
stop  it." 

"How  can  I?"  he  demanded. 

"I'm  not  going  to  argue  with  you,"  she  retorted. 
"But  there's  a  right  way  of  doing  things  and  a  wrong 
way.  If  you've  made  up  your  mind  to  be  different 
from  everybody  else,  I  don't  suppose  I  can  stop  you, 
but  I  really  don't  think  it's  very  considerate." 

"But,  Hildegarde,  I  can't  help  it." 

"You  can  too.  You're  simply  stubborn.  You  think. 
you  don't  want  to  be  like  any  one  else.  You  always  have 
been  that  way,  and  you  always  will  be.  But  just  think 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     215 

how  it  would  be  if  every  one  else  looked  at  things  as 
you  do — what  would  the  world  be  like  ?" 

As  this  was  an  inane  and  unanswerable  argument 
Benjamin  made  no  reply,  and  from  that  time  on  a  chasm 
began  to  widen  between  them.  He  wondered  what  pos 
sible  fascination  she  had  ever  exercised  over  him. 

To  add  to  the  breach,  he  found,  as  the  new  century 
gathered  headway,  that  his  thirst  for  gayety  grew 
stronger.  Never  a  party  of  any  kind  in  the  city  of 
Baltimore  but  he  was  there,  dancing  with  the  prettiest 
of  the  young  married  women,  chatting  with  the  most 
popular  of  the  debutantes,  and  finding  their  company 
charming,  while  his  wife,  a  dowager  of  evil  omen,  sat 
among  the  chaperons,  now  in  haughty  disapproval,  and 
now  following  him  with  solemn,  puzzled,  and  reproach 
ful  eyes. 

"Look!"  people  would  remark.  "What  a  pity!  A 
young  fellow  that  age  tied  to  a  woman  of  forty-five.  He 
must  be  twenty  years  younger  than  his  wife."  They  had 
forgotten — as  people  inevitably  forget — that  back  in 
1880  their  mammas  and  papas  had  also  remarked  about 
this  same  ill-matched  pair. 

Benjamin's  growing  unhappiness  at  home  was  com 
pensated  for  by  his  many  new  interests.  He  took  up 
golf  and  made  a  great  success  of  it.  He  went  in  for 
dancing:  in  1906  he  was  an  expert  at  "The  Boston,"  and 
in  1908  he  was  considered  proficient  at  the  "Maxixe," 
while  in  1909  his  "Castle  Walk"  was  the  envy  of  every 
young  man  in  town. 

His  social  activities,  of  course,  interfered  to  some  ex 
tent  with  his  business,  but  then  he  had  worked  hard  at 
wholesale  hardware  for  twenty-five  years  and  felt  that 
he  could  soon  hand  it  on  to  his  son,  Roscoe,  who  had 
recently  graduated  from  Harvard. 

He  and  his  son  were,  in  fact,  often  mistaken  for  each 


2i6  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

other.  This  pleased  Benjamin — he  soon  forgot  the  in 
sidious  fear  which  had  come  over  him  on  his  return 
from  the  Spanish-American  War,  and  grew  to  take  a 
naive  pleasure  in  his  appearance.  There  was  only  one 
fly  in  the  delicious  ointment — he  hated  to  appear  in 
public  with  his  wife.  Hildegarde  was  almost  fifty, 
and  the  sight  of  her  made  him  feel  absurd.  .  .  . 

IX 

One  September  day  in  1910 — a  few  years  after  Roger 
Button  &  Co.,  Wholesale  Hardware,  had  been  handed 
over  to  young  Roscoe  Button — a  man,  apparently  about 
twenty  years  old,  entered  himself  as  a  freshman  at 
Harvard  University  in  Cambridge.  He  did  not  make 
the  mistake  of  announcing  that  he  would  never  see 
fifty  again  nor  did  he  mention  the  fact  that  his  son  had 
been  graduated  from  the  same  institution  ten  years  be 
fore. 

He  was  admitted,  and  almost  immediately  attained  a 
prominent  position  in  the  class,  partly  because  he  seemed 
a  little  older  than  the  other  freshmen,  whose  average 
age  was  about  eighteen. 

But  his  success  was  largely  due  to  the  fact  that  in  the 
football  game  with  Yale  he  played  so  brilliantly,  with  so 
much  dash  and  with  such  a  cold,  remorseless  anger  that 
he  scored  seven  touchdowns  and  fourteen  field  goals  for 
Harvard,  and  caused  one  entire  eleven  of  Yale  men  to 
be  carried  singly  from  the  field,  unconscious.  He  was 
the  most  celebrated  man  in  college. 

Strange  to  say,  in  his  third  or  junior  year  he  was 
scarcely  able  to  "make"  the  team.  The  coaches  said 
that  he  had  lost  weight,  and  it  seemed  to  the  more  ob 
servant  among  them  that  he  was  not  quite  as  tall  as 
before.  He  made  no  touchdowns — indeed,  he  was  re- 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     217 

tained  on  the  team  chiefly  in  hope  that  his  enormous 
reputation  would  bring  terror  and  disorganization  to 
the  Yale  team. 

In  his  senior  year  he  did  not  make  the  team  at  all.  He 
had  grown  so  slight  and  frail  that  one  day  he  was  taken 
by  some  sophomores  for  a  freshman,  an  incident  which 
humiliated  him  terribly.  He  became  known  as  some 
thing  of  a  prodigy — a  senior  who  was  surely  no  more 
than  sixteen — and  he  was  often  shocked  at  the  worldli- 
ness  of  some  of  his  classmates.  His  studies  seemed 
harder  to  him — he  felt  that  they  were  too  advanced.  He 
had  heard  his  classmates  speak  of  St.  Midas',  the  famous 
preparatory  school,  at  which  so  many  of  them  had  pre 
pared  for  college,  and  he  determined  after  his  gradua 
tion  to  enter  himself  at  St.  Midas',  where  the  sheltered 
life  among  boys  his  own  size  would  be  more  congenial 
to  him. 

Upon  his  graduation  in  1914  he  went  home  to  Balti 
more  with  his  Harvard  diploma  in  his  pocket.  Hilde- 
garde  was  now  residing  in  Italy,  so  Benjamin  went  to 
live  with  his  son,  Roscoe.  But  though  he  was  welcomed 
in  a  general  way,  there  was  obviously  no  heartiness  in 
Roscoe's  feeling  toward  him — there  was  even  percepti 
ble  a  tendency  on  his  son's  part  to  think  that  Benjamin, 
as  he  moped  about  the  house  in  adolescent  mooniness, 
was  somewhat  in  the  way.  Roscie  was  married  now  and 
prominent  in  Baltimore  life,  and  he  wanted  no  scandal 
to  creep  out  in  connection  with  his  family. 

Benjamin,  no  longer  persona  grata  with  the  debu 
tantes  and  younger  college  set,  found  himself  left  much 
alone,  except  for  the  companionship  'of  three  or  four 
fifteen-year-old  boys  in  the  neighborhood.  His  idea  of 
going  to  St.  Midas'  school  recurred  to  him. 

"Say,"  he  said  to  Roscoe  one  day,  "I've  told  you  over 
and  over  that  I  want  to  go  to  prep  school." 


2i8  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Well,  go,  then,"  replied  Roscoe  shortly.  The  mat 
ter  was  distasteful  to  him,  and  he  wished  to  avoid  a 
discussion. 

"I  can't  go  alone,"  said  Benjamin  helplessly.  "You'll 
have  to  enter  me  and  take  me  up  there." 

"I  haven't  got  time,"  declared  Roscoe  abruptly.  His 
eyes  narrowed  and  he  looked  uneasily  at  his  father. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  added,  "you'd  better  not  go 
on  with  this  business  much  longer.  You  better  pull  up 
short.  You  better — you  better" — he  paused  and  his 
face  crimsoned  as  he  sought  for  words — "you  better 
turn  right  around  and  start  back  the  other  way.  This 
has  gone  too  far  to  be  a  joke.  It  isn't  funny  any  longer. 
You — you  behave  yourself ! " 

Benjamin  looked  at  him,  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"And  another  thing,"  continued  Roscoe,  "when  visi 
tors  are  in  the  house  I  want  you  to  call  me  '  Uncle ' — not 
'Roscoe/  but  ' Uncle/  do  you  understand?  It  looks 
absurd  for  a  boy  of  fifteen  to  call  me  by  my  first  name. 
Perhaps  you'd  better  call  me  'Uncle'  all  the  time,  so 
you'll  get  used  to  it." 

With  a  harsh  look  at  his  father^  Roscoe  turned 
away.  .  .  . 

X 

At  the  termination  of  this  interview,  Benjamin  wan 
dered  dismally  up-stairs  and  stared  at  himself  in  the 
mirror.  He  had  not  shaved  for  three  months,  but  he 
could  find  nothing  on  his  face  but  a  faint  white  down 
with  which  it  seemed  unnecessary  to  meddle.  When  he 
had  first  come  home  from  Harvard,  Roscoe  had  ap 
proached  him  with  the  proposition  that  he  should  wear 
eye-glasses  and  imitation  whiskers  glued  to  his  cheeks, 
and  it  had  seemed  for  a  moment  that  the  farce  of  his 
early  years  was  to  be  repeated.  But  whiskers  had 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     219 

itched  and  made  him  ashamed.  He  wept  and  Roscoe 
had  reluctantly  relented. 

Benjamin  opened  a  book  of  boys7  stories,  "The  Boy 
Scouts  in  Bimini  Bay/'  and  began  to  read.  But  he 
found  himself  thinking  persistently  about  the  war. 
America  had  joined  the  Allied  cause  during  the  preced 
ing  month,  and  Benjamin  wanted  to  enlist,  but,  alas, 
sixteen  was  the  minimum  age,  and  he  did  not  look  that 
old.  His  true  age,  which  was  fifty-seven,  would  have 
disqualified  him,  anyway. 

There  was  a  knock  at  his  door,  and  the  butler  ap 
peared  with  a  letter  bearing  a  large  official  legend  in 
the  corner  and  addressed  to  Mr.  Benjamin  Button. 
Benjamin  tore  it  open  eagerly,  and  read  the  enclosure 
with  delight.  It  informed  him  that  many  reserve  officers 
who  had  served  in  the  Spanish- American  War  were 
being  called  back  into  service  with  a  higher  rank,  and  it 
enclosed  his  commission  as  brigadier-general  in  the  United 
States  army  with  orders  to  report  immediately. 

Benjamin  jumped  to  his  feet  fairly  quivering  with 
enthusiasm.  This  was  what  he  had  wanted.  He  seized 
his  cap  and  ten  minutes  later  he  had  entered  a  large 
tailoring  establishment  on  Charles  Street,  and  asked  in 
his  uncertain  treble  to  be  measured  for  a  uniform. 

"Want  to  play  soldier,  sonny?"  demanded  a  clerk, 
casually. 

Benjamin  flushed.  "Say!  Never  mind  what  I 
want!'7  he  retorted  angrily.  "My  name's  Button  and 
I  live  on  Mt.  Vernon  Place,  so  you  know  I'm  good  for 
it.'7 

"Well,77  admitted  the  clerk,  hesitantly,  "if  you're 
not,  I  guess  your  daddy  is,  all  right." 

Benjamin  was  measured,  and  a  week  later  his  uniform 
was  completed.  He  had  difficulty  in  obtaining  the 
proper  general's  insignia  because  the  dealer  kept  in- 


220  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

sisting  to  Benjamin  that  a  nice  Y.  W.  C.  A.  badge 
would  look  just  as  well  and  be  much  more  fun  to  play 
with. 

Saying  nothing  to  Roscoe,  he  left  the  house  one  night 
and  proceeded  by  train  to  Camp  Mosby,  in  South  Caro 
lina,  where  he  was  to  command  an  infantry  brigade. 
On  a  sultry  April  day  he  approached  the  entrance  to 
the  camp,  paid  off  the  taxicab  which  had  brought  him 
from  the  station,  and  turned  to  the  sentry  on  guard. 

"  Get  some  one  to  handle  my  luggage ! "  he  said  briskly. 

The  sentry  eyed  him  reproachfully.  "Say,"  he  re 
marked,  "where  you  goin*  with  the  general's  duds, 
sonny  ? " 

Benjamin,  veteran  of  the  Spanish-American  War, 
whirled  upon  him  with  fire  in  his  eye,  but  with,  alas, 
a  changing  treble  voice. 

"Come  to  attention !"  he  tried  to  thunder;  he  paused 
for  breath — then  suddenly  he  saw  the  sentry  snap  his 
heels  together  and  bring  his  rifle  to  the  present.  Ben 
jamin  concealed  a  smile  of  gratification,  but  when  he 
glanced  around  his  smile  faded.  It  was  not  he  who  had 
inspired  obedience,  but  an  imposing  artillery  colonel  who 
was  approaching  on  horseback. 

"Colonel!"  called  Benjamin  shrilly. 

The  colonel  came  up,  drew  rein,  and  looked  coolly 
down  at  him  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  "Whose  little 
boy  are  you  ?"  he  demanded  kindly. 

"I'll  soon  darn  well  show  you  whose  little  boy  I 
am!"  retorted  Benjamin  in  a  ferocious  voice.  "Get 
down  off  that  horse!" 

The  colonel  roared  with  Daughter. 

"You  want  him,  eh,  general?" 

"Here!"  cried  Benjamin  desperately.  "Read  this." 
And  he  thrust  his  commission  toward  the  colonel. 

The  colonel  read  it,  his  eyes  popping  from  their  sockets. 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     221 

"Where'd  you  get  this?"  he  demanded,  slipping  the 
document  into  his  own  pocket. 

"I  got  it  from  the  Government,  as  you'll  soon  find 
out!" 

"You  come  along  with  me,"  said  the  colonel  with  a 
peculiar  look.  "We'll  go  up  to  headquarters  and  talk 
this  over.  Come  along." 

The  colonel  turned  and  began  walking  his  horse  in 
the  direction  of  headquarters.  There  was  nothing  for 
Benjamin  to  do  but  follow  with  as  much  dignity  as  pos 
sible — meanwhile  promising  himself  a  stern  revenge. 

But  this  revenge  did  not  materialize.  Two  days 
later,  however,  his  son  Roscoe  materialized  from  Balti 
more,  hot  and  cross  from  a  hasty  trip,  and  escorted  the 
weeping  general,  sans  uniform,  back  to  his  home. 

XI 

In  1920  Roscoe  Button's  first  child  was  born.  Dur 
ing  the  attendant  festivities,  however,  no  one  thought 
it  "the  thing"  to  mention  that  the  little  grubby  boy, 
apparently  about  ten  years  of  age  who  played  around 
the  house  with  lead  soldiers  and  a  miniature  circus,  was 
the  new  baby's  own  grandfather. 

No  one  disliked  the  little  boy  whose  fresh,  cheerful 
face  was  crossed  with  just  a  hint  of  sadness,  but  to  Roscoe 
Button  his  presence  was  a  source  of  torment.  In  the 
idiom  of  his  generation  Roscoe  did  not  consider  the 
matter  "efficient."  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  father, 
in  refusing  to  look  sixty,  had  not  behaved  like  a  "red- 
blooded  he-man" — this  was  Roscoe's  favorite  expres 
sion — but  in  a  curious  and  perverse  manner.  Indeed, 
to  think  about  the  matter  for  as  much  as  a  half  an  hour 
drove  him  to  the  edge  of  insanity.  Roscoe  believed  that 
"live  wires"  should  keep  young,  but  carrying  it  out  on 


222  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

such  a  scale  was — was — was  inefficient.  And  there 
Roscoe  rested. 

Five  years  later  Roscoe's  little  boy  had  grown  old 
enough  to  play  childish  games  with  little  Benjamin 
under  the  supervision  of  the  same  nurse.  Roscoe  took 
them  both  to  kindergarten  on  the  same  day  and  Ben 
jamin  found  that  playing  with  little  strips  of  colored 
paper,  making  mats  and  chains  and  curious  and  beauti 
ful  designs,  was  the  most  fascinating  game  in  the  world. 
Once  he  was  bad  and  had  to  stand  in  the  corner — then 
he  cried — but  for  the  most  part  there  were  gay  hours  in 
the  cheerful  room,  with  the  sunlight  coming  in  the  win 
dows  and  Miss  Bailey's  kind  hand  resting  for  a  mo 
ment  now  and  then  in  his  tousled  hair. 

Roscoe's  son  moved  up  into  the  first  grade  after  a 
year,  but  Benjamin  stayed  on  in  the  kindergarten.  He 
was  very  happy.  Sometimes  when  other  tots  talked 
about  what  they  would  do  when  they  grew  up  a  shadow 
would  cross  his  little  face  as  if  in  a  dim,  childish  way  he 
realized  that  those  were  things  in  which  he  was  never  to 
share. 

The  days  flowed  on  in  monotonous  content.  He  went 
back  a  third  year  to  the  kindergarten,  but  he  was  too 
little  now  to  understand  what  the  bright  shining  strips 
of  paper  were  for.  He  cried  because  the  other  boys 
were  bigger  than  he  and  he  was  afraid  of  them.  The 
teacher  talked  to  him,  but  though  he  tried  to  understand 
he  could  not  understand  at  all. 

He  was  taken  from  the  kindergarten.  His  nurse, 
Nana,  in  her  starched  gingham  dress,  became  the  centre 
of  his  tiny  world.  On  bright  days  they  walked  in  the 
park;  Nana  would  point  at  a  great  gray  monster  and 
say  " elephant,"  and  Benjamin  would  say  it  after  her, 
and  when  he  was  being  undressed  for  bed  that  night  he 
would  say  it  over  and  over  aloud  to  her:  "Elyphant, 


THE  CASE  OF  BENJAMIN  BUTTON     223 

elyphant,  elyphant."  Sometimes  Nana  let  him  jump 
on  the  bed,  which  was  fun,  because  if  you  sat  down  ex 
actly  right  it  would  bounce  you  up  on  your  feet  again, 
and  if  you  said  " Ah"  for  a  long  time  while  you  jumped 
you  got  a  very  pleasing  broken  vocal  effect. 

He  loved  to  take  a  big  cane  from  the  hatrack  and  go 
around  hitting  chairs  and  tables  with  it  and  saying: 
"Fight,  fight,  fight."  When  there  were  people  there 
the  old  ladies  would  cluck  at  him,  which  interested  him, 
and  the  young  ladies  would  try  to  kiss  him,  which  he 
submitted  to  with  mild  boredom.  And  when  the  long 
day  was  done  at  five  o'clock  he  would  go  up-stairs  with 
Nana  and  be  fed  oatmeal  and  nice  soft  mushy  foods  with 
a  spoon. 

There  were  no  troublesome  memories  in  his  childish 
sleep;  no  token  came  to  him  of  his  brave  days  at  col 
lege,  of  the  glittering  years  when  he  flustered  the  hearts 
of  many  girls.  There  were  only  the  white,  safe  walls 
of  his  crib  and  Nana  and  a  man  who  came  to  see  him 
sometimes,  and  a  great  big  orange  ball  that  Nana  pointed 
at  just  before  his  twilight  bed  hour  and  called  "sun." 
When  the  sun  went  his  eyes  were  sleepy — there  were  no 
dreams,  no  dreams  to  haunt  him. 

The  past — the  wild  charge  at  the  head  of  his  men  up 
San  Juan  Hill;  the  first  years  of  his  marriage  when  he 
worked  late  into  the  summer  dusk  down  in  the  busy 
city  for  young  Hildegarde  whom  he  loved;  the  days  be 
fore  that  when  he  sat  smoking  far  into  the  night  in  the 
gloomy  old  Button  house  on  Monroe  Street  with  his 
grandfather— all  these  had  faded  like  unsubstantial 
dreams  from  his  mind  as  though  they  had  never  been. 

He  did  not  remember.  He  did  not  remember  clearly 
whether  the  milk  was  warm  or  cool  at  his  last  feeding  or 
how  the  days  passed— there  was  only  his  crib  and  Nana's 
familiar  presence.  And  then  he  remembered  nothing. 


224  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

When  he  was  hungry  he  cried — that  was  all.  Through 
the  noons  and  nights  he  breathed  and  over  him  there 
were  soft  mumblings  and  murmurings  that  he  scarcely 
heard,  and  faintly  differentiated  smells,  and  light  and 
darkness. 

Then  it  was  all  dark,  and  his  white  crib  and  the  dim 
faces  that  moved  above  him,  and  the  warm  sweet  aroma 
of  the  milk,  faded  out  altogether  from  his  mind. 


TARQUIN  OF   CHEAPSIDE 

RUNNING  footsteps — light,  soft-soled  shoes  made  of 
curious  leathery  cloth  brought  from  Ceylon  setting  the 
pace;  thick  flowing  boots,  two  pairs,  dark  blue  and  gilt, 
reflecting  the  moonlight  in  blunt  gleams  and  splotches, 
following  a  stone's  throw  behind. 

Soft  Shoes  flashes  through  a  patch  of  moonlight,  then 
darts  into  a  blind  labyrinth  of  alleys  and  becomes  only 
an  intermittent  scuffle  ahead  somewhere  in  the  enfold 
ing  darkness.  In  go  Flowing  Boots,  with  short  swords 
lurching  and  long  plumes  awry,  finding  a  breath  to  curse 
God  and  the  black  lanes  of  London. 

Soft  Shoes  leaps  a  shadowy  gate  and  crackles  through 
a  hedgerow.  Flowing  Boots  leap  the  gate  and  crackles 
through  the  hedgerow — and  there,  startlingly,  is  the 
watch  ahead — two  murderous  pikemen  of  ferocious  cast 
of  mouth  acquired  in  Holland  and  the  Spanish  marches. 

But  there  is  no  cry  for  help.  The  pursued  does  not  fall 
panting  at  the  feet  of  the  watch,  clutching  a  purse; 
neither  do  the  pursuers  raise  a  hue  and  cry.  Soft  Shoes 
goes  by  in  a  rush  of  swift  air.  The  watch  curse  and 
hesitate,  glance  after  the  fugitive,  and  then  spread  their 
pikes  grimly  across  the  road  and  wait  for  Flowing  Boots. 
Darkness,  Hke  a  great  hand,  cuts  off  the  even  flow  of  the 
moon. 

The  hand  moves  off  the  moon  whose  pale  caress  finds 
again  the  eaves  and  lintels,  and  the  watch,  wounded  and 
tumbled  in  the  dust.  Up  the  street  one  of  Flowing 
Boots  leaves  a  black  trail  of  spots  until  he  binds  himseli, 
clumsily  as  he  runs,  with  fine  lace  caught  from  his 
throat. 

225 


226  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

It  was  no  affair  for  the  watch:  Satan  was  at  large  to 
night  and  Satan  seemed  to  be  he  who  appeared  dimly 
in  front,  heel  over  gate,  knee  over  fence.  Moreover, 
the  adversary  was  obviously  travelling  near  home  or  at 
least  in  that  section  of  London  consecrated  to  his  coarser 
whims,  for  the  street  narrowed  like  a  road  in  a  picture 
and  the  houses  bent  over  further  and  further,  cooping 
in  natural  ambushes  suitable  for  murder  and  its  histrionic 
sister,  sudden  death. 

Down  long  and  sinuous  lanes  twisted  the  hunted 
and  the  harriers,  always  in  and  out  of  the  moon  in  a 
perpetual  queen's  move  over  a  checker-board  of  glints 
and  patches.  Ahead,  the  quarry,  minus  his  leather 
jerkin  now  and  half  blinded  by  drips  of  sweat,  had 
taken  to  scanning  his  ground  desperately  on  both  sides. 
As  a  result  he  suddenly  slowed  short,  and  retracing  his 
steps  a  bit  scooted  up  an  alley  so  dark  that  it  seemed  that 
here  sun  and  moon  had  been  in  eclipse  since  the  last 
glacier  slipped  roaring  over  the  earth.  Two  hundred 
yards  down  he  stopped  and  crammed  himself  into  a 
niche  in  the  wall  where  he  huddled  and  panted  silently, 
a  grotesque  god  without  bulk  or  outline  in  the  gloom. 

Flowing  Boots,  two  pairs,  drew  near,  came  up,  went 
by,  halted  twenty  yards  beyond  him,  and  spoke  in  deep- 
lunged,  scanty  whispers: 

"I  was  attune  to  that  scuffle;  it  stopped." 

"Within  twenty  paces." 

"He's  hid." 

"Stay  together  now  and  we'll  cut  him  up." 

The  voice  faded  into  a  low  crunch  of  a  boot,  nor  did 
Soft  Shoes  wait  to  hear  more — he  sprang  in  three  leaps 
across  the  alley,  where  he  bounded  up,  flapped  for  a 
moment  on  the  top  of  the  wall  like  a  huge  bird,  and  dis 
appeared,  gulped  down  by  the  hungry  night  at  a  mouth 
ful. 


TARQUIN  OF  CHEAPSIDE  227 


II 

"He  read  at  wine,  he  read  in  bed, 

He  read  aloud,  had  he  the  breath, 
His  every  thought  was  with  the  dead, 
And  so  he  read  himself  to  death." 

Any  visitor  to  the  old  James  the  First  graveyard  near 
Peat's  Hill  may  spell  out  this  bit  of  doggerel,  undoubt 
edly  one  of  the  worst  recorded  of  an  Elizabethan,  on  the 
tomb  of  Wessel  Caxter. 

This  death  of  his,  says  the  antiquary,  occurred  when 
he  was  thirty-seven,  but  as  this  story  is  concerned  with 
the  night  of  a  certain  chase  through  darkness,  we  find 
him  still  alive,  still  reading.  His  eyes  were  somewhat 
dim,  his  stomach  somewhat  obvious — he  was  a  mis- 
built  man  and  indolent — oh,  Heavens !  But  an  era  is  an 
era,  and  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  by  the  grace  of  Luther, 
Queen  of  England,  no  man  could  help  but  catch  the 
spirit  of  enthusiasm.  Every  loft  in  Cheapside  pub 
lished  its  Magnum  Folium  (or  magazine)  of  the  new 
blank  verse;  the  Cheapside  Players  would  produce  any 
thing  on  sight  as  long  as  it  "got  away  from  those  reac 
tionary  miracle  plays,"  and  the  English  Bible  had  run 
through  seven  "very  large"  printings  in  as  many 
months. 

So  Wessel  Caxter  (who  in  his  youth  had  gone  to  sea) 
was  now  a  reader  of  all  on  which  he  could  lay  his  hands — 
he  read  manuscripts  in  holy  friendship;  he  dined  rotten 
poets;  he  loitered  about  the  shops  where  the  Magna 
Folia  were  printed,  and  he  listened  tolerantly  while  the 
young  playwrights  wrangled  and  bickered  among  them 
selves,  and  behind  each  other's  backs  made  bitter  and 
malicious  charges  of  plagiarism  or  anything  else  they 
could  think  of. 


228  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

To-night  he  had  a  book,  a  piece  of  work  which,  though 
inordinately  versed,  contained,  he  thought,  some  rather 
excellent  political  satire.  "The  Faerie  Queene"  by  Ed 
mund  Spenser  lay  before  him  under  the  tremulous 
candle-light.  He  had  ploughed  through  a  canto;  he  was 
beginning  another: 

THE  LEGEND  OF  BRITOMARTIS  OR  OF  CHASTITY 

//  falls  me  here  to  write  of  Chastity. 

The  fayrest  vertue,  far  above  the  rest.  .  .  . 

A  sudden  rush  of  feet  on  the  stairs,  a  rusty  swing-open 
of  the  thin  door,  and  a  man  thrust  himself  into  the 
room,  a  man  without  a  jerkin,  panting,  sobbing,  on  the 
verge  of  collapse. 

"Wessel,"  words  choked  him,  "stick  me  away  some 
where,  love  of  Our  Lady!" 

Caxter  rose,  carefully  closing  his  book,  and  bolted 
the  door  in  some  concern. 

"I'm  pursued,"  cried  out  Soft  Shoes.  "I  vow  there's 
two  short-witted  blades  trying  to  make  me  into  mince 
meat  and  near  succeeding.  They  saw  me  hop  the  back 
wall!" 

"It  would  need,"  said  Wessel,  looking  at  him  curiously, 
"several  battalions  armed  with  blunderbusses,  and  two 
or  three  Armadas,  to  keep  you  reasonably  secure  from 
the  revenges  of  the  world." 

Soft  Shoes  smiled  with  satisfaction.  His  sobbing 
gasps  were  giving  way  to  quick,  precise  breathing;  his 
hunted  air  had  faded  to  a  faintly  perturbed  irony. 

"I  feel  little  surprise,"  continued  Wessel. 

"They  were  two  such  dreary  apes." 

"Making  a  total  of  three." 

"Only  two  unless  you  stick  me  away.  Man,  man, 
come  alive;  they'll  be  on  the  stairs  in  a  spark's  age." 


TARQUIN  OF  CHEAPSIDE  229 

*.* 

Wessel  took  a  dismantled  pike-staff  from  the  corner, 
and  raising  it  to  the  high  ceiling,  dislodged  a  rough  trap 
door  opening  into  a  garret  above. 

"There's  no  ladder." 

He  moved  a  bench  under  the  trap,  upon  which  Soft 
Shoes  mounted,  crouched,  hesitated,  crouched  again, 
and  then  leaped  amazingly  upward.  He  caught  at  the 
edge  of  the  aperture  and  swung  back  and  forth  for  a 
moment,  shifting  his  hold ;  finally  doubled  up  and  disap 
peared  into  the  darkness  above.  There  was  a  scurry, 
a  migration  of  rats,  as  the  trap-door  was  replaced;  .  .  . 
silence. 

Wessel  returned  to  his  reading-table,  opened  to  the 
Legend  of  Britomartis  or  of  Chastity — and  waited. 
Almost  a  minute  later  there  was  a  scramble  on  the 
stairs  and  an  intolerable  hammering  at  the  door.  Wessel 
sighed  and,  picking  up  his  candle,  rose. 

"Who's  there?" 

"Open  the  door!" 

"Who's  there?" 

An  aching  blow  frightened  the  frail  wood,  splintered 
it  around  the  edge.  Wessel  opened  it  a  scarce  three 
inches,  and  held  the  candle  high.  His  was  to  play  the 
timorous,  the  super-respectable  citizen,  disgracefully 
disturbed. 

"One  small  hour  of  the  night  for  rest.  Is  that  too 
much  to  ask  from  every  brawler  and — 

"Quiet,  gossip!    Have  you  seen  a  perspiring  fellow  ?" 

The  shadows  of  two  gallants  fell  in  immense  waver 
ing  outlines  over  the  narrow  stairs;  by  the  light  Wessel 
scrutinized  them  closely.  Gentlemen,  they  were,  hast 
ily  but  richly  dressed — one  of  them  wounded  severely 
in  the  hand,  both  radiating  a  sort  of  furious  horror. 
Waving  aside  WessePs  ready  miscomprehension,  they 
pushed  by  him  into  the  room  and  with  their  swords 


230  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

went  through  the  business  of  poking  carefully  into  all 
suspected  dark  spots  in  the  room,  further  extending 
their  search  to  Wessel's  bedchamber. 

"Is  he  hid  here?"  demanded  the  wounded  man 
fiercely. 

"Is  who  here?" 

"Any  man  but  you." 

"Only  two  others  that  I  know  of." 

For  a  second  Wessel  feared  that  he  had  been  too 
damned  funny,  for  the  gallants  made  as  though  to  prick 
him  through. 

"I  heard  a  man  on  the  stairs,"  he  said  hastily,  "full 
five  minutes  ago,  it  was.  He  most  certainly  failed  to 
come  up." 

He  went  on  to  explain  his  absorption  in  "  The  Faerie 
Queene  "  but,  for  the  moment  at  least,  his  visitors,  like 
the  great  saints,  were  anaesthetic  to  culture. 

"What's  been  done?"  inquired  Wessel. 

"Violence!"  said  the  man  with  the  wounded  hand. 
Wessel  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  quite  wild.  "  My  own 
sister.  Oh,  Christ  in  heaven,  give  us  this  man ! " 

Wessel  winced. 

"Who  is  the  man?" 

"God's  word!  We  know  not  even  that.  What's 
that  trap  up  there  ?"  he  added  suddenly. 

"It's  nailed  down.  It's  not  been  used  for  years." 
He  thought  of  the  pole  in  the  corner  and  quailed  in  his 
belly,  but  the  utter  despair  of  the  two  men  dulled  their 
astuteness. 

"It  would  take  a  ladder  for  any  one  not  a  tumbler," 
said  the  wounded  man  listlessly. 

His  companion  broke  into  hysterical  laughter. 

"A  tumbler.     Oh,  a  tumbler.     Oh " 

Wessel  stared  at  them  in  wonder. 


TARQUIN  OF  CHEAPSIDE  231 

"That  appeals  to  my  most  tragic  humor/'  cried  the 
man,  "that  no  one — oh,  no  one — could  get  up  there  but 
a  tumbler. " 

The  gallant  with  the  wounded  hand  snapped  his 
good  fingers  impatiently. 

"We  must  go  next  door — and  then  on " 

Helplessly  they  went  as  two  walking  under  a  dark 
and  storm-swept  sky. 

Wessel  closed  and  bolted  the  door  and  stood  a  mo 
ment  by  it,  frowning  in  pity. 

A  low-breathed  "Ha ! "  made  him  look  up.  Soft  Shoes 
had  already  raised  the  trap  and  was  looking  down  into 
the  room,  his  rather  elfish  face  squeezed  into  a  grimace, 
half  of  distaste,  half  of  sardonic  amusement. 

"They  take  off  their  heads  with  their  helmets,"  he 
remarked  in  a  whisper,  "but  as  for  you  and  me,  Wessel, 
we  are  two  cunning  men." 

"Now  you  be  cursed,"  cried  Wessel  vehemently.  "I 
knew  you  for  a  dog,  but  when  I  hear  even  the  half  of  a 
tale  like  this,  I  know  you  for  such  a  dirty  cur  that  I  am 
minded  to  club  your  skull." 

Soft  Shoes  stared  at  him,  blinking. 

"At  all  events,"  he  replied  finally,  "I  find  dignity  im 
possible  in  this  position." 

With  this  he  let  his  body  through  the  trap,  hung  for 
an  instant,  and  dropped  the  seven  feet  to  the  floor. 

"There  was  a  rat  considered  my  ear  with  the  air  of  a 
gourmet,"  he  continued,  dusting  his  hands  on  his 
breeches.  "I  told  him  in  the  rat's  peculiar  idiom  that 
I  was  deadly  poison,  so  he  took  himself  off." 

"Let's  hear  of  this  night's  lechery!"  insisted  Wessel 
angrily. 

Soft  Shoes  touched  his  thumb  to  his  nose  and  wiggled 
the  fingers  derisively  at  Wessel. 


23  2  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Street  gamin!"  muttered  Wessel. 

"Have  you  any  paper?"  demanded  Soft  Shoes  irrele 
vantly,  and  then  rudely  added,  "or  can  you  write?" 

"Why  should  I  give  you  paper  ?" 

"You  wanted  to  hear  of  the  night's  entertainment. 
So  you  shall,  and  you  give  me  pen,  ink,  a  sheaf  of  paper, 
and  a  room  to  myself." 

Wessel  hesitated. 

"Get  out!"  he  said  finally. 

"As  you  will.  Yet  you  have  missed  a  most  intrigu 
ing  story." 

Wessel  wavered — he  was  soft  as  taffy,  that  man — 
gave  in.  Soft  Shoes  went  into  the  adjoining  room  with 
the  begrudged  writing  materials  and  precisely  closed  the 
door.  Wessel  grunted  and  returned  to  "The  Faerie 
Queene  ";  so  silence  came  once  more  upon  the  house. 

Ill 

Three  o'clock  went  into  four.  The  room  paled,  the 
dark  outside  was  shot  through  with  damp  and  chill, 
and  Wessel,  cupping  his  brain  in  his  hands,  bent  low  over 
his  table,  tracing  through  the  pattern  of  knights  and 
fairies  and  the  harrowing  distresses  of  many  girls. 
There  were  dragons  chortling  along  the  narrow  street 
outside;  when  the  sleepy  armorer's  boy  began  his  work 
at  half-past  five  the  heavy  clink  and  chank  of  plate  and 
linked  mail  swelled  to  the  echo  of  a  marching  cavalcade. 

A  fog  shut  down  at  the  first  flare  of  dawn,  and  the  room 
was  grayish  yellow  at  six  when  Wessel  tiptoed  to  his 
cupboard  bedchamber  and  pulled  open  the  door.  His 
guest  turned  on  him  a  face  pale  as  parchment  in  which 
two  distraught  eyes  burned  like  great  red  letters.  He 
had  drawn  a  chair  close  to  WessePs  prie-dieu  which  he 
was  using  as  a  desk;  and  on  it  was  an  amazing  stack  of 


TARQUIN  OF  CHEAPSIDE  233 

closely  written  pages.  With  a  long  sigh  Wessel  with 
drew  and  returned  to  his  siren,  calling  himself  fool  for 
not  claiming  his  bed  here  at  dawn. 

The  clump  of  boots  outside,  the  croaking  of  old  bel 
dames  from  attic  to  attic,  the  dull  murmur  of  morning, 
unnerved  him,  and,  dozing,  he  slumped  in  his  chair,  his 
brain,  overladen  with  sound  and  color,  working  intoler 
ably  over  the  imagery  that  stacked  it.  In  this  restless 
dream  of  his  he  was  one  of  a  thousand  groaning  bodies 
crushed  near  the  sun,  a  helpless  bridge  for  the  strong- 
eyed  Apollo.  The  dream  tore  at  him,  scraped  along 
his  mind  like  a  ragged  knife.  When  a  hot  hand  touched 
his  shoulder,  he  awoke  with  what  was  nearly  a  scream 
to  find  the  fog  thick  in  the  room  and  his  guest,  a  gray 
ghost  of  misty  stuff,  beside  him  with  a  pile  of  paper  in 
his  hand. 

"It  should  be  a  most  intriguing  tale,  I  believe,  though 
it  requires  some  going  over.  May  I  ask  you  to  lock  it 
away,  and  in  God's  name  let  me  sleep  ? " 

He  waited  for  no  answer,  but  thrust  the  pile  at  Wessel, 
and  literally  poured  himself  like  stuff  from  a  suddenly 
inverted  bottle  upon  a  couch  in  the  corner;  slept,  with 
his  breathing  regular,  but  his  brow  wrinkled  in  a  curious 
and  somewhat  uncanny  manner. 

Wessel  yawned  sleepily  and,  glancing  at  the  scrawled, 
uncertain  first  page,  he  began  reading  aloud  very  softly: 

The  Rape  of  Lucrece 

"From  the  besieged  Ardea  all  in  post, 
Borne  by  the  trustless  wings  of  false  desire, 
Lust-breathing  Tarquin  leaves  the  Roman  host " 


"  O  RUSSET  WITCH ! " 

MERLIN  GRAINGER  was  employed  by  the  Moonlight 
Quill  Bookshop,  which  you  may  have  visited,  just 
around  the  corner  from  the  Ritz-Carlton  on  Forty- 
seventh  Street.  The  Moonlight  Quill  is,  or  rather  was, 
a  very  romantic  little  store,  considered  radical  and  ad 
mitted  dark.  It  was  spotted  interiorly  with  red  and 
orange  posters  of  breathless  exotic  intent,  and  lit  no  less 
by  the  shiny  reflecting  bindings  of  special  editions  than 
by  the  great  squat  lamp  of  crimson  satin  that,  lighted 
through  all  the  day,  swung  overhead.  It  was  truly  a 
mellow  bookshop.  The  words  "Moonlight  Quill"  were 
worked  over  the  door  in  a  sort  of  serpentine  embroidery. 
The  windows  seemed  always  full  of  something  that  had 
passed  the  literary  censors  with  little  to  spare;  volumes 
with  covers  of  deep  orange  which  offer  their  titles  on 
little  white  paper  squares.  And  over  all  there  was  the 
smell  of  the  musk,  which  the  clever,  inscrutable  Mr. 
Moonlight  Quill  ordered  to  be  sprinkled  about — the  smell 
half  of  a  curiosity  shop  in  Dickens'  London  and  half  of 
a  coffee-house  on  the  warm  shores  of  the  Bosphorus. 

From  nine  until  five-thirty  Merlin  Grainger  asked 
bored  old  ladies  in  black  and  young  men  with  dark  cir 
cles  under  their  eyes  if  they  "cared  for  this  fellow"  or 
were  interested  in  first  editions.  Did  they  buy  novels 
with  Arabs  on  the  cover,  or  books  which  gave  Shake 
speare's  newest  sonnets  as  dictated  psychically  to  Miss 
Sutton  of  South  Dakota?  he  sniffed.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  his  own  taste  ran  to  these  latter,  but  as  an  employee 
at  the  Moonlight  Quill  he  assumed  for  the  working  day 
the  attitude  of  a  disillusioned  connoisseur. 

After  he  had  crawled  over  the  window  display  to  pull 

234 


"O  RUSSET  WITCH!"  235 

down  the  front  shade  at  five-thirty  every  afternoon,  and 
said  good-bye  to  the  mysterious  Mr.  Moonlight  Quill 
and  the  lady  clerk,  Miss  McCracken,  and  the  lady 
stenographer,  Miss  Masters,  he  went  home  to  the  girl, 
Caroline.  He  did  not  eat  supper  with  Caroline.  It 
is  unbelievable  that  Caroline  would  have  considered 
eating  off  his  bureau  with  the  collar  buttons  dangerously 
near  the  cottage  cheese,  and  the  ends  of  Merlin's  necktie 
just  missing  his  glass  of  milk — he  had  never  asked  her 
to  eat  with  him.  He  ate  alone.  He  went  into  Braeg- 
dort's  delicatessen  on  Sixth  Avenue  and  bought  a  box 
of  crackers,  a  tube  of  anchovy  paste,  and  some  oranges, 
or  else  a  little  jar  of  sausages  and  some  potato  salad  and 
a  bottled  soft  drink,  and  with  these  in  a  brown  package 
he  went  to  his  room  at  Fifty-something  West  Fifty- 
eighth  Street  and  ate  his  supper  and  saw  Caroline. 

Caroline  was  a  very  young  and  gay  person  who  lived 
with  some  older  lady  and  was  possibly  nineteen.  She 
was  like  a  ghost  in  that  she  never  existed  until  evening. 
She  sprang  into  life  when  the  lights  went  on  in  her  apart 
ment  at  about  six,  and  she  disappeared,  at  the  latest, 
about  midnight.  Her  apartment  was  a  nice  one,  in  a 
nice  building  with  a  white  stone  front,  opposite  the  south 
side  of  Central  Park.  The  back  of  her  apartment  faced 
the  single  window  of  the  single  room  occupied  by  the 
single  Mr.  Grainger. 

He  called  her  Caroline  because  there  was  a  picture 
that  looked  like  her  on  the  jacket  of  a  book  of  that  name 
down  at  the  Moonlight  Quill. 

Now,  Merlin  Grainger  was  a  thin  young  man  of 
twenty-five,  with  dark  hair  and  no  mustache  or  beard 
or  anything  like  that,  but  Caroline  was  dazzling  and 
light,  with  a  shimmering  morass  of  russet  waves  to  take 
the  place  of  hair,  and  the  sort  of  features  that  remind  you 
^of  kisses — the  sort  of  features  you  thought  belonged  to 


236  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

your  first  love,  but  know,  when  you  come  across  an  old 
picture,  didn't.  She  dressed  in  pink  or  blue  usually, 
but  of  late  she  had  sometimes  put  on  a  slender  black 
gown  that  was  evidently  her  especial  pride,  for  whenever 
she  wore  it  she  would  stand  regarding  a  certain  place 
on  the  wall,  which  Merlin  thought  must  be  a  mirror. 
She  sat  usually  in  the  profile  chair  near  the  window,  but 
sometimes  honored  the  chaise  longue  by  the  lamp,  and 
often  she  leaned  'way  back  and  smoked  a  cigarette  with 
posturings  of  her  arms  and  hands  that  Merlin  considered 
very  graceful. 

At  another  time  she  had  come  to  the  window  and  stood 
in  it  magnificently,  and  looked  out  because  the  moon  had 
lost  its  way  and  was  dripping  the  strangest  and  most 
transforming  brilliance  into  the  areaway  between,  turn 
ing  the  motif  of  ash-cans  and  clothes-lines  into  a  vivid 
impressionism  of  silver  casks  and  gigantic  gossamer 
cobwebs.  Merlin  was  sitting  in  plain  sight,  eating  cot 
tage  cheese  with  sugar  and  milk  on  it;  and  so  quickly 
did  he  reach  out  for  the  window  cord  that  he  tipped  the 
cottage  cheese  into  his  lap  with  his  free  hand — and  the 
milk  was  cold  and  the  sugar  made  spots  on  his  trousers, 
and  he  was  sure  that  she  had  seen  him  after  all. 

Sometimes  there  were  callers — men  in  dinner  coats, 
who  stood  and  bowed,  hat  in  hand  and  coat  on  arm,  as 
they  talked  to  Caroline;  then  bowed  some  more  and 
followed  her  out  of  the  light,  obviously  bound  for  a  play 
or  for  a  dance.  Other  young  men  came  and  sat  and 
smoked  cigarettes,  and  seemed  trying  to  tell  Caroline 
something — she  sitting  either  in  the  profile  chair  and 
watching  them  with  eager  intentness  or  else  in  the 
chaise  longue  by  the  lamp,  looking  very  lovely  and  youth 
fully  inscrutable  indeed. 

Merlin  enjoyed  these  calls.  Of  some  of  the  men  he 
approved.  Others  won  only  his  grudging  toleration, 


"O  RUSSET  WITCH!"  237 

one  or  two  he  loathed — especially  the  most  frequent 
caller,  a  man  with  black  hair  and  a  black  goatee  and  a 
pitch-dark  soul,  who  seemed  to  Merlin  vaguely  familiar, 
but  whom  he  was  never  quite  able  to  recognize. 

Now,  Merlin's  whole  life  was  not  "bound  up  with  this 
romance  he  had  constructed";  it  was  not  "the  happiest 
hour  of  his  day."  He  never  arrived  in  time  to  rescue 
Caroline  from  "clutches";  nor  did  he  even  marry  her. 
A  much  stranger  thing  happened  than  any  of  these,  and 
it  is  this  strange  thing  that  will  presently  be  set  down 
here.  It  began  one  October  afternoon  when  she  walked 
briskly  into  the  mellow  interior  of  the  Moonlight  Quill. 

It  was  a  dark  afternoon,  threatening  rain  and  the  end 
of  the  world,  and  done  in  that  particularly  gloomy  gray 
in  which  only  New  York  afternoons  indulge.  A  breeze 
was  crying  down  the  streets,  whisking  along  battered 
newspapers  and  pieces  of  things,  and  little  lights  were 
pricking  out  all  the  windows — it  was  so  desolate  that 
one  was  sorry  for  the  tops  of  sky-scrapers  lost  up  there  in 
the  dark  green  and  gray  heaven,  and  felt  that  now  surely 
the  farce  was  to  close,  and  presently  all  the  buildings 
would  collapse  like  card  houses,  and  pile  up  in  a  dusty, 
sardonic  heap  upon  all  the  millions  who  presumed  to 
wind  in  and  out  of  them. 

At  least  these  were  the  sort  of  musings  that  lay  heavily 
upon  the  soul  of  Merlin  Grainger,  as  he  stood  by  the  win 
dow  putting  a  dozen  books  back  in  a  row,  after  a  cyclonic 
visit  by  a  lady  with  ermine  trimmings.  He  looked  out 
of  the  window  full  of  the  most  distressing  thoughts — of 
the  early  novels  of  H.  G.  Wells,  of  the  book  of  Genesis, 
of  how  Thomas  Edison  had  said  that  in  thirty  years 
there  would  be  no  dwelling-houses  upon  the  island,  but 
only  a  vast  and  turbulent  bazaar;  and  then  he  set  the 
last  book  right  side  up,  turned — and  Caroline  walked 
coolly  into  the  shop. 


238  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

She  was  dressed  in  a  jaunty  but  conventional  walking 
costume — he  remembered  this  when  he  thought  about 
it  later.  Her  skirt  was  plaid,  pleated  like  a  concertina; 
her  jacket  was  a  soft  but  brisk  tan;  her  shoes  and  spats 
were  brown  and  her  hat,  small  and  trim,  completed  her 
like  the  top  of  a  very  expensive  and  beautifully  rilled 
candy  box. 

Merlin,  breathless  and  startled,  advanced  nervously 
toward  her. 

"  Good-afternoon — "  he  said,  and  then  stopped — why, 
he  did  not  know,  except  that  it  came  to  him  that  some 
thing  very  portentous  in  his  life  was  about  to  occur, 
and  that  it  would  need  no  furbishing  but  silence,  and  the 
proper  amount  of  expectant  attention.  And  in  that 
minute  before  the  thing  began  to  happen  he  had  the 
sense  of  a  breathless  second  hanging  suspended  in  time: 
he  saw  through  the  glass  partition  that  bounded  off  the 
little  office  the  malevolent  conical  head  of  his  employer, 
Mr.  Moonlight  Quill,  bent  over  his  correspondence. 
He  saw  Miss  McCracken  and  Miss  Masters  as  two 
patches  of  hair  drooping  over  piles  of  paper;  he  saw  the 
crimson  lamp  overhead,  and  noticed  with  a  touch  of 
pleasure  how  really  pleasant  and  romantic  it  made  the 
book-store  seem. 

Then  the  thing  happened,  or  rather  it  began  to  hap 
pen.  Caroline  picked  up  a  volume  of  poems  lying  loose 
upon  a  pile,  fingered  it  absently  with  her  slender  white 
hand,  and  suddenly,  with  an  easy  gesture,  tossed  it  up 
ward  toward  the  ceiling,  where  it  disappeared  in  the 
crimson  lamp  and  lodged  there,  seen  through  the  il 
luminated  silk  as  a  dark,  bulging  rectangle.  This 
pleased  her — she  broke  into  young,  contagious  laughter, 
in  which  Merlin  found  himself  presently  joining. 

"It  stayed  up!"  she  cried  merrily.  "It  stayed  up, 
didn't  it?"  To  both  of  them  this  seemed  the  height  of 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  239 

brilliant  absurdity.  Their  laughter  mingled,  filled  the 
bookshop,  and  Merlin  was  glad  to  find  that  her  voice 
was  rich  and  full  of  sorcery. 

"Try  another/7  he  found  himself  suggesting — "try  a 
red  one." 

At  this  her  laughter  increased,  and  she  had  to  rest  her 
hands  upon  the  stack  to  steady  herself. 

"Try  another,"  she  managed  to  articulate  between 
spasms  of  mirth.  "Oh,  golly,  try  another  1" 

"Try  two." 

"Yes,  try  two.  Oh,  I'll  choke  if  I  don't  stop  laugh 
ing.  Here  it  goes." 

Suiting  her  action  to  the  word,  she  picked  up  a  red 
book  and  sent  it  in  a  gentle  hyperbola  toward  the 
ceiling,  where  it  sank  into  the  lamp  beside  the  first.  It 
was  a  few  minutes  before  either  of  them  could  do  more 
than  rock  back  and  forth  in  helpless  glee;  but  then  by 
mutual  agreement  they  took  up  the  sport  anew,  this 
time  in  unison.  Merlin  seized  a  large,  specially  bound 
French  classic  and  whirled  it  upward.  Applauding  his 
own  accuracy,  he  took  a  best-seller  in  one  hand  and  a 
book  on  barnacles  in  the  other,  and  waited  breathlessly 
while  she  made  her  shot.  Then  the  business  waxed  fast 
and  furious — sometimes  they  alternated,  and,  watching, 
he  found  how  supple  she  was  in  every  movement; 
sometimes  one  of  them  made  shot  after  shot,  picking  up 
the  nearest  book,  sending  it  off,  merely  taking  time  to 
follow  it  with  a  glance  before  reaching  for  another. 
Within  three  minutes  they  had  cleared  a  little  place  on 
the  table,  and  the  lamp  of  crimson  satin  was  so  bulging 
with  books  that  it  was  near  breaking. 

"Silly  game,  basket-ball,"  she  cried  scornfully  as  a 
book  left  her  hand.  ' '  High-school  girls  play  it  in  hideous 
bloomers." 

"Idiotic,"  he  agreed. 


240  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

She  paused  in  the  act  of  tossing  a  book,  and  replaced 
it  suddenly  in  its  position  on  the  table. 

"I  think  we've  got  room  to  sit  down  now,"  she  said 
gravely. 

They  had;  they  had  cleared  an  ample  space  for  two. 
With  a  faint  touch  of  nervousness  Merlin  glanced  toward 
Mr.  Moonlight  Quill's  glass  partition,  but  the  three 
heads  were  still  bent  earnestly  over  their  work,  and  it 
was  evident  that  they  had  not  seen  what  had  gone  on 
in  the  shop.  So  when  Caroline  put  her  hands  on  the 
table  ^and  hoisted  herself  up  Merlin  calmly  imitated 
her,  and  they  sat  side  by  side  looking  very  earnestly  at 
each  other. 

"I  had  to  see  you,"  she  began,  with  a  rather  pathetic 
expression  in  her  brown  eyes. 

"I  know." 

"It  was  that  last  time,"  she  continued,  her  voice 
trembling  a  little,  though  she  tried  to  keep  it  steady. 
"I  was  frightened.  I  don't  like  you  to  eat  off  the  dresser. 
I'm  so  afraid  you'll — you'll  swallow  a  collar  button." 

"I  did  once — almost,"  he  confessed  reluctantly,  "but 
it's  not  so  easy,  you  know.  I  mean  you  can  swallow 
the  flat  part  easy  enough  or  else  the  other  part — that 
is,  separately — but  for  a  whole  collar  button  you'd 
have  to  have  a  specially  made  throat."  He  was  aston 
ishing  himself  by  the  debonnaire  appropriateness  of  his 
remarks.  Words  seemed  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
to  run  at  him  shrieking  to  be  used,  gathering  themselves 
into  carefully  arranged  squads  and  platoons,  and  being 
presented  to  him  by  punctilious  adjutants  of  para 
graphs. 

"That's  what  scared  me,"  she  said.  "I  knew  you 
had  to  have  a  specially  made  throat — and  I  knew,  at 
least  I  felt  sure,  that  you  didn't  have  one." 

He  nodded  frankly. 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  241 

"I  haven't.  It  costs  money  to  have  one — more 
money  unfortunately  than  I  possess. " 

He  felt  no  shame  in  saying  this — rather  a  delight  in 
making  the  admission — he  knew  that  nothing  he  could 
say  or  do  would  be  beyond  her  comprehension;  least 
of  all  his  poverty,  and  the  practical  impossibility  of  ever 
extricating  himself  from  it. 

Caroline  looked  down  at  her  wrist  watch,  and  with  a 
little  cry  slid  from  the  table  to  her  feet. 

" It's  after  five,"  she  cried.  "I  didn't  realize.  I  have 
to  be  at  the  Ritz  at  five-thirty.  Let's  hurry  and  get 
this  done.  Fve  got  a  bet  on  it." 

With  one  accord  they  set  to  work.  Caroline  began 
the  matter  by  seizing  a  book  on  insects  and  sending  it 
whizzing,  and  finally  crashing  through  the  glass  parti 
tion  that  housed  Mr.  Moonlight  Quill.  The  proprietor 
glanced  up  with  a  wild  look,  brushed  a  few  pieces  of 
glass  from  his  desk,  and  went  on  with  his  letters.  Miss 
McCracken  gave  no  sign  of  having  heard — only  Miss 
Masters  started  and  gave  a  little  frightened  scream  be 
fore  she  bent  to  her  task  again. 

But  to  Merlin  and  Caroline  it  didn't  matter.  In  a 
perfect  orgy  of  energy  they  were  hurling  book  after  book 
in  all  directions,  until  sometimes  three  or  four  were  in 
the  air  at  once,  smashing  against  shelves,  cracking  the 
glass  of  pictures  on  the  walls,  falling  in  bruised  and  torn 
heaps  upon  the  floor.  It  was  fortunate  that  no  custom 
ers  happened  to  come  in,  for  it  is  certain  they  would  never 
have  come  in  again — the  noise  was  too  tremendous,  a 
noise  of  smashing  and  ripping  and  tearing,  mixed  now 
and  then  with  the  tinkling  of  glass,  the  quick  breathing 
of  the  two  throwers,  and  the  intermittent  outbursts  of 
laughter  to  which  both  of  them  periodically  surrendered. 

At  five- thirty  Caroline  tossed  a  last  book  at  the  lamp, 
and  so  gave  the  final  impetus  to  the  load  it  carried.  The 


242  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

weakened  silk  tore  and  dropped  its  cargo  in  one  vast 
splattering  of  white  and  color  to  the  already  littered 
floor.  Then  with  a  sigh  of  relief  she  turned  to  Merlin 
and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good-by,"  she  said  simply. 

"Are  you  going  ?"  He  knew  she  was.  His  question 
was  simply  a  lingering  wile  to  detain  her  and  extract 
for  another  moment  that  dazzling  essence  of  light  he 
drew  from  her  presence,  to  continue  his  enormous  satis 
faction  in  her  features,  which  were  like  kisses  and,  he 
thought,  like  the  features  of  a  girl  he  had  known  back  in 
1910.  For  a  minute  he  pressed  the  softness  of  her  hand 
— then  she  smiled  and  withdrew  it  and,  before  he  could 
spring  to  open  the  door,  she  had  done  it  herself  and  was 
gone  out  into  the  turbid  and  ominous  twilight  that 
brooded  narrowly  over  Forty-seventh  Street. 

I  would  like  to  tell  you  how  Merlin,  having  seen  how 
beauty  regards  the  wisdom  of  the  years,  walked  into  the 
little  partition  of  Mr.  Moonlight  Quill  and  gave  up  his 
job  then  and  there;  thence  issuing  out  into  the  street  a 
much  finer  and  nobler  and  increasingly  ironic  man.  But 
the  truth  is  much  more  commonplace.  Merlin  Grainger 
stood  up  and  surveyed  the  wreck  of  the  bookshop,  the 
ruined  volumes,  the  torn  silk  remnants  of  the  once  beau 
tiful  crimson  lamp,  the  crystalline  sprinkling  of  broken 
glass  which  lay  in  iridescent  dust  over  the  whole  interior 
— and  then  he  went  to  a  corner  where  a  broom  was  kept 
and  began  cleaning  up  and  rearranging  and,  as  far  as  he 
was  able,  restoring  the  shop  to  its  former  condition.  He 
found  that,  though  some  few  of  the  books  were  unin 
jured,  most  of  them  had  suffered  in  varying  extents. 
The  backs  were  off  some,  the  pages  were  torn  from  others, 
still  others  were  just  slightly  cracked  in  the  front,  which, 
as  all  careless  book  returners  know,  makes  a  book  un 
salable,  and  therefore  second-hand. 


"O  RUSSET  WITCH!"  243 

Nevertheless  by  six  o'clock  he  had  done  much  to  re 
pair  the  damage.  He  had  returned  the  books  to  their 
original  places,  swept  the  floor,  and  put  new  lights  in 
the  sockets  overhead.  The  red  shade  itself  was  ruined 
beyond  redemption,  and  Merlin  thought  in  some  trepi 
dation  that  the  money  to  replace  it  might  have  to  come 
out  of  his  salary.  At  six,  therefore,  having  done  the 
best  he  could,  he  crawled  over  the  front  window  display 
to  pull  down  the  blind.  As  he  was  treading  delicately 
back,  he  saw  Mr.  Moonlight  Quill  rise  from  his  desk, 
put  on  his  overcoat  and  hat,  and  emerge  into  the  shop. 
He  nodded  mysteriously  at  Merlin  and  went  toward  the 
door.  With  his  hand  on  the  knob  he  paused,  turned 
around,  and  in  a  voice  curiously  compounded  of  ferocity 
and  uncertainty,  he  said : 

"If  that  girl  comes  in  here  again,  you  tell  her  to  be 
have." 

With  that  he  opened  the  door,  drowning  Merlin's 
meek  "Yessir"  in  its  creak,  and  went  out. 

Merlin  stood  there  for  a  moment,  deciding  wisely 
not  to  worry  about  what  was  for  the  present  only  a 
possible  futurity,  and  then  he  went  into  the  back  of  the 
shop  and  invited  Miss  Masters  to  have  supper  with  him 
at  Pulpat's  French  Restaurant,  where  one  could  still 
obtain  red  wine  at  dinner,  despite  the  Great  Federal 
Government.  Miss  Masters  accepted. 

"Wine  makes  me  feel  all  tingly,"  she  said. 

Merlin  laughed  inwardly  as  he  compared  her  to  Caro 
line,  or  rather  as  he  didn't  compare  her.  There  was  no 
comparison. 

II 

Mr.  Moonlight  Quill,  mysterious,  exotic,  and  oriental 
in  temperament  was,  nevertheless,  a  man  of  decision. 
And  it  was  with  decision  that  he  approached  the  problem 


244  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

of  his  wrecked  shop.  Unless  he  should  make  an  outlay 
equal  to  the  original  cost  of  his  entire  stock — a  step 
which  for  certain  private  reasons  he  did  not  wish  to  take 
— it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  continue  in  business 
with  the  Moonlight  Quill  as  before.  There  was  but  one 
thing  to  do.  He  promptly  turned  his  establishment 
from  an  up-to-the-minute  book-store  into  a  second-hand 
bookshop.  The  damaged  books  were  marked  down  from 
twenty-five  to  fifty  per  cent,  the  name  over  the  door 
whose  serpentine  embroidery  had  once  shone  so  inso 
lently  bright,  was  allowed  to  grow  dim  and  take  on  the 
indescribably  vague  color  of  old  paint,  and,  having  a 
strong  penchant  for  ceremonial,  the  proprietor  even 
went  so  far  as  to  buy  two  skull-caps  of  shoddy  red  felt, 
one  for  himself  and  one  for  his  clerk,  Merlin  Grainger. 
Moreover,  he  let  his  goatee  grow  until  it  resembled  the 
tail-feathers  of  an  ancient  sparrow  and  substituted  for 
a  once  dapper  business  suit  a  reverence-inspiring  affair 
of  shiny  alpaca. 

In  fact,  within  a  year  after  Caroline's  catastrophic 
visit  to  the  bookshop  the  only  thing  in  it  that  preserved 
any  semblance  of  being  up  to  date  was  Miss  Masters. 
Miss  McCracken  had  followed  in  the  footsteps  of  Mr. 
Moonlight  Quill  and  become  an  intolerable  dowd. 

For  Merlin  too,  from  a  feeling  compounded  of  loyalty 
and  listlessness,  had  let  his  exterior  take  on  the  semblance 
of  a  deserted  garden.  He  accepted  the  red  felt  skull 
cap  as  a  symbol  of  his  decay.  Always  a  young  man 
known  as  a  "pusher,"  he  had  been,  since  the  day  of  his 
graduation  from  the  manual  training  department  of  a 
New  York  High  School,  an  inveterate  brusher  of  clothes, 
hair,  teeth,  and  even  eyebrows,  and  had  learned  the 
value  of  laying  all  his  clean  socks  toe  upon  toe  and  heel 
upon  heel  in  a  certain  drawer  of  his  bureau,  which  would 
be  known  as  the  sock  drawer. 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  245 

These  things,  he  felt,  had  won  him  his  place  in  the 
greatest  splendor  of  the  Moonlight  Quill.  It  was  due  to 
them  that  he  was  not  still  making  "  chests  useful  for 
keeping  things,"  as  he  was  taught  with  breathless  prac 
ticality  in  High  School,  and  selling  them  to  whoever 
had  use  of  such  chests — possibly  undertakers.  Never 
theless  when  the  progressive  Moonlight  Quill  became 
the  retrogressive  Moonlight  Quill  he  preferred  to  sink 
with  it,  and  so  took  to  letting  his  suits  gather  undis 
turbed  the  wispy  burdens  of  the  air  and  to  throwing  his 
socks  indiscriminately  into  the  shirt  drawer,  the  under 
wear  drawer,  and  even  into  no  drawer  at  all.  It  was  not 
uncommon  in  his  new  carelessness  to  let  many  of  his 
clean  clothes  go  directly  back  to  the  laundry  without 
having  ever  been  worn,  a  common  eccentricity  of  im 
poverished  bachelors.  And  this  in  the  face  of  his  favorite 
magazines,  which  at  that  time  were  fairly  staggering 
with  articles  by  successful  authors  against  the  fright 
ful  impudence  of  the  condemned  poor,  such  as  the  buy 
ing  of  wearable  shirts  and  nice  cuts  of  meat,  and  the 
fact  that  they  preferred  good  investments  in  personal 
jewelry  to  respectable  ones  in  four  per  cent  saving- 
banks. 

It  was  indeed  a  strange  state  of  affairs  and  a  sorry 
one  for  many  worthy  and  God-fearing  men.  For  the 
first  time  in  the  history  of  the  Republic  almost  any  negro 
north  of  Georgia  could  change  a  one-dollar  bill.  But 
as  at  that  time  the  cent  was  rapidly  approaching  the 
purchasing  power  of  the  Chinese  ubu  and  was  only  a 
thing  you  got  back  occasionally  after  paying  for  a  soft 
drink,  and  could  use  merely  in  getting  your  correct 
weight,  this  was  perhaps  not  so  strange  a  phenomenon 
as  it  at  first  seems.  It  was  too  curious  a  state  of  things, 
however,  for  Merlin  Grainger  to  take  the  step  that  he 
did  take — the  hazardous,  almost  involuntary  step  of 


246  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

proposing  to  Miss  Masters.  Stranger  still  that  she 
accepted  him. 

It  was  at  Pulpat's  on  Saturday  night  and  over  a  $1.75 
bottle  of  water  diluted  with  vin  ordinaire  that  the  pro 
posal  occurred. 

"Wine  makes  me  feel  all  tingly,  doesn't  it  you?" 
chattered  Miss  Masters  gaily. 

"Yes,"  answered  Merlin  absently;  and  then,  after  a 
long  and  pregnant  pause:  "Miss  Masters — Olive — I 
want  to  say  something  to  you  if  you'll  listen  to  me." 

The  tingliness  of  Miss  Masters  (who  knew  what  was 
coming)  increased  until  it  seemed  that  she  would  shortly 
be  electrocuted  by  her  own  nervous  reactions.  But  her 
"Yes,  Merlin,"  came  without  a  sign  or  flicker  of  interior 
disturbance.  Merlin  swallowed  a  stray  bit  of  air  that 
he  found  in  his  mouth. 

"I  have  no  fortune,"  he  said  with  the  manner  of 
making  an  announcement.  "I  have  no  fortune  at  all." 

Their  eyes  met,  locked,  became  wistful,  and  dreamy 
and  beautiful. 

"Olive,"  he  told  her,  "I  love  you." 

"I  love  you  too,  Merlin,"  she  answered  simply. 
"Shall  we  have  another  bottle  of  wine  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  cried,  his  heart  beating  at  a  great  rate. 
"Do  you  mean " 

"To  drink  to  our  engagement,"  she  interrupted 
bravely.  "  May  it  be  a  short  one ! " 

"No!"  he  almost  shouted,  bringing  his  fist  fiercely 
down  upon  the  table.  "May  it  last  forever!" 

"What?" 

"I  mean — oh,  I  see  what  you  mean.  You're  right. 
May  it  be  a  short  one."  He  laughed  and  added,^"My 
error." 

After  the  wine  arrived  they  discussed  the  matter 
thoroughly. 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  247 

"We'll  have  to  take  a  small  apartment  at  first,"  he 
said,  "and  I  believe,  yes,  by  golly,  I  know  there's  a 
small  one  in  the  house  where  I  live,  a  big  room  and  a 
sort  of  a  dressing-room-kitchenette  and  the  use  of  a 
bath  on  the  same  floor." 

She  clapped  her  hands  happily,  and  he  thought  how 
pretty  she  was  really,  that  is^the  upper  part  of  her  face — 
from  the  bridge  of  the  nose  down  she  was  somewhat  out 
of  true.  She  continued  enthusiastically: 

"And  as  soon  as  we  can  afford  it  we'll  take  a  real  swell 
apartment,  with  an  elevator  and  a  telephone  girl." 

"And  after  that  a  place  in  the  country — and  a  car." 

"I  can't  imagine  nothing  more  fun.     Can  you  ?" 

Merlin  fell  silent  a  moment.  He  was  thinking  that 
he  would  have  to  give  up  his  room,  the  fourth  floor  rear. 
Yet  it  mattered  very  little  now.  During  the  past  year  and 
a  half — in  fact,  from  the  very  date  of  Caroline's  visit  to 
the  Moonlight  Quill — he  had  never  seen  her.  For  a  week 
after  that  visit  her  lights  had  failed  to  go  on — darkness 
brooded  out  into  the  areaway,  seemed  to  grope  blindly 
in  at  his  expectant,  uncurtained  window.  Then  the 
lights  had  appeared  at  last,  and  instead  of  Caroline  and 
her  callers  they  showed  a  stodgy  family — a  little  man 
with  a  bristly  mustache  and  a  full-bosomed  woman 
who  spent  her  evenings  patting  her  hips  and  rearrang 
ing  bric-a-brac.  After  two  days  of  them  Merlin  had 
callously  pulled  down  his  shade. 

No,  Merlin  could  think  of  nothing  more  fun  than  rising 
in  the  world  with  Olive.  There  would  be  a  cottage  in 
a  suburb,  a  cottage  painted  blue,  just  one  class  below 
the  sort  of  cottages  that  are  of  white  stucco  with  a 
green  roof.  In  the  grass  around  the  cottage  would  be 
rusty  trowels  and  a  broken  green  bench  and  a  baby- 
carriage  with  a  wicker  body  that  sagged  to  the  left. 
And  around  the  grass  and  the  baby-carriage  and  the 


248  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

cottage  itself,  around  his  whole  world  there  would  be 
the  arms  of  Olive,  a  little  stouter,  the  arms  of  her  neo- 
Olivian  period,  when,  as  she  walked,  her  cheeks  would 
tremble  up  and  down  ever  so  slightly  from  too  much 
face-massaging.  He  could  hear  her  voice  now,  two 
spoons'  length  away: 

"I  knew  you  were  going  to  say  this  to-night,  Merlin. 
I  could  see " 

She  could  see.  Ah — suddenly  he  wondered  how  much 
she  could  see.  Could  she  see  that  the  girl  who  had  come 
in  with  a  party  of  three  men  and  sat  down  at  the  next 
table  was  Caroline?  Ah,  could  she  see  that?  Could 
she  see  that  the  men  brought  with  them  liquor  far  more 
potent  than  Pulpat's  red  ink  condensed  threefold  .  .  .  ? 

Merlin  stared  breathlessly,  half-hearing  through  an 
auditory  ether  Olive's  low,  soft  monologue,  as  like  a  per 
sistent  honey-bee  she  sucked  sweetness  from  her  mem 
orable  hour.  Merlin  was  listening  to  the  clinking  of 
ice  and  the  fine  laughter  of  all  four  at  some  pleasantry — 
and  that  laughter  of  Caroline's  that  he  knew  so  well 
stirred  him,  lifted  him,  called  his  heart  imperiously 
over  to  her  table,  whither  it  obediently  went.  He  could 
see  her  quite  plainly,  and  he  fancied  that  in  the  last  year 
and  a  half  she  had  changed,  if  ever  so  slightly.  Was 
it  the  light  or  were  her  cheeks  a  little  thinner  and  her 
eyes  less  fresh,  if  more  liquid,  than  of  old  ?  Yet  the 
shadows  were  still  purple  in  her  russet  hair;  her  mouth 
hinted  yet  of  kisses,  as  did  the  profile  that  came  some 
times  between  his  eyes  and  a  row  of  books,  when  it  was 
twilight  in  the  bookshop  where  the  crimson  lamp  pre 
sided  no  more. 

And  she  had  been  drinking.  The  threefold  flush  in 
her  cheeks  was  compounded  of  youth  and  wine  and  fine 
cosmetic — that  he  could  tell.  She  was  making  great 
amusement  for  the  young  man  on  her  left  and  the  portly 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  249 

person  on  her  right,  and  even  for  the  old  fellow  opposite 
her,  for  the  latter  from  time  to  time  uttered  the  shocked 
and  mildly  reproachful  cackles  of  another  generation. 
Merlin  caught  the  words  of  a  song  she  was  intermittently 
singing 

"Just  snap  your  fingers  at  care, 
Don't  cross  the  bridge  'til  you're  there " 

The  portly  person  filled  her  glass  with  chill  amber. 
A  waiter  after  several  trips  about  the  table,  and  many 
helpless  glances  at  Caroline,  who  was  maintaining  a 
cheerful,  futile  questionnaire  as  to  the  succulence  of  this 
dish  or  that,  managed  to  obtain  the  semblance  of  an 
order  and  hurried  away.  .  .  . 

Olive  was  speaking  to  Merlin 

"When,  then?"  she  asked,  her  voice  faintly  shaded 
with  disappointment.  He  realized  that  he  had  just 
answered  no  to  some  question  she  had  asked  him. 

"Oh,  sometime." 

"Don't  you— care?" 

A  rather  pathetic  poignancy  in  her  question  brought 
his  eyes  back  to  her. 

"As  soon  as  possible,  dear,"  he  replied  with  sur 
prising  tenderness.  "In  two  months — in  June." 

"  So  soon  ? "  Her  delightful  excitement  quite  took  her 
breath  away. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  we'd  better  say  June.  No  use 
waiting." 

Olive  began  to  pretend  that  two  months  was  really 
too  short  a  time  for  her  to  make  preparations.  Wasn't 
he  a  bad  boy!  Wasn't  he  impatient,  though!  Well, 
she'd  show  him  he  mustn't  be  too  quick  with  her.  In 
deed  he  was  so  sudden  she  didn't  exactly  know  whether 
she  ought  to  marry  him  at  all. 


250  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"June,"  he  repeated  sternly. 

Olive  sighed  and  smiled  and  drank  her  coffee,  her 
little  finger  lifted  high  above  the  others  in  true  refined 
fashion.  A  stray  thought  came  to  Merlin  that  he  would 
like  to  buy  five  rings  and  throw  at  it. 

"By  gosh!"  he  exclaimed  aloud.  Soon  he  would  be 
putting  rings  on  one  of  her  fingers. 

His  eyes  swung  sharply  to  the  right.  The  party  of 
four  had  become  so  riotous  that  the  head-waiter  had 
approached  and  spoken  to  them.  Caroline  was  arguing 
with  this  head-waiter  in  a  raised  voice,  a  voice  so  clear 
and  young  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  whole  restaurant 
would  listen — the  whole  restaurant  except  Olive  Masters, 
self-absorbed  in  her  new  secret. 

"How  do  you  do  ?  "  Caroline  was  saying.  " Probably 
the  handsomest  head- waiter  in  captivity.  Too  much 
noise  ?  Very  unfortunate.  Somethmgll  have  to  be 
done  about  it.  Gerald" — she  addressed  the  man  on  her 
right — "the  head- waiter  says  there's  too  much  noise. 
Appeals  to  us  to  have  it  stopped.  What'll  I  say  ?" 

"Sh!"  remonstrated  Gerald,  with  laughter.  "Sh!" 
and  Merlin  heard  him  add  in  an  undertone:  "All  the 
bourgeoisie  will  be  aroused.  This  is  where  the  floor 
walkers  learn  French." 

Caroline  sat  up  straight  in  sudden  alertness. 

"Where's  a  floorwalker?"  she  cried.  "Show  me  a 
floorwalker."  This  seemed  to  amuse  the  party,  for  they 
all,  including  Caroline,  burst  into  renewed  laughter. 
The  head-waiter,  after  a  last  conscientious  but  despair 
ing  admonition,  became  Gallic  with  his  shoulders  and 
retired  into  the  background. 

Pulpat's,  as  every  one  knows,  has  the  unvarying  re 
spectability  of  the  table  d'hote.  It  is  not  a  gay  place 
in  the  conventional  sense.  One  comes,  drinks  the  red 
wine,  talks  perhaps  a  little  more  and  a  little  louder  than. 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  251 

usual  under  the  low,  smoky  ceilings,  and  then  goes  home. 
It  closes  up  at  nine-thirty,  tight  as  a  drum ;  the  police 
man  is  paid  off  and  given  an  extra  bottle  of  wine  for  the 
missis,  the  coat-room  girl  hands  her  tips  to  the  collec 
tor,  and  then  darkness  crushes  the  little  round  tables 
out  of  sight  and  life.  But  excitement  was  prepared  for 
Pulpat's  this  evening — excitement  of  no  mean  variety. 
A  girl  with  russet,  purple-shadowed  hair  mounted  to 
her  table-top  and  began  to  dance  thereon. 

"Sacre  nom  de  Dieu  !  Come  down  off  there ! "  cried  the 
head- waiter.  "Stop  that  music!" 

But  the  musicians  were  already  playing  so  loud  that 
they  could  pretend  not  to  hear  his  order;  having  once 
been  young,  they  played  louder  and  gayer  than  ever,  and 
Caroline  danced  with  grace  and  vivacity,  her  pink, 
filmy  dress  swirling  about  her,  her  agile  arms  playing  in 
supple,  tenuous  gestures  along  the  smoky  air. 

A  group  of  Frenchmen  at  a  table  near  by  broke  into 
cries  of  applause,  in  which  other  parties  joined — in  a 
moment  the  room  was  full  of  clapping  and  shouting; 
half  the  diners  were  on  their  feet,  crowding  up,  and  on 
the  outskirts  the  hastily  summoned  proprietor  was 
giving  indistinct  vocal  evidences  of  his  desire  to  put  an 
end  to  this  thing  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"...  Merlin!"  cried  Olive,  awake,  aroused  at 
last;  "she's  such  a  wicked  girl!  Let's  get  out — now!" 

The  fascinated  Merlin  protested  feebly  that  the  check 
was  not  paid. 

"It's  all  right.  Lay  five  dollars  on  the  table.  I 
despise  that  girl.  I  can't  bear  to  look  at  her."  She  was 
on  her  feet  now,  tugging  at  Merlin's  arm. 

Helplessly,  listlessly,  and  then  with  what  amounted 
to  downright  unwillingness,  Merlin  rose,  followed  Olive 
dumbly  as  she  picked  her  way  through  the  delirious 
clamor,  now  approaching  its  height  and  threatening  to 


252  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

become  a  wild  and  memorable  riot.  Submissively  he 
took  his  coat  and  stumbled  up  half  a  dozen  steps  into 
the  moist  April  air  outside,  his  ears  still  ringing  with  the 
sound  of  light  feet  on  the  table  and  of  laughter  all  about 
and  over  the  little  world  of  the  cafe.  In  silence  they 
walked  along  toward  Fifth  Avenue  and  a  bus. 

It  was  not  until  next  day  that  she  told  him  about  the 
wedding — how  she  had  moved  the  date  forward:  it  was 
much  better  that  they  should  be  married  on  the  first  of 
May. 

Ill 

And  married  they  were,  in  a  somewhat  stuffy  manner, 
under  the  chandelier  of  the  flat  where  Olive  lived  with 
her  mother.  After  marriage  came  elation,  and  then, 
gradually,  the  growth  of  weariness.  Responsibility  de 
scended  upon  Merlin,  the  responsibility  of  making  his 
thirty  dollars  a  week  and  her  twenty  suffice  to  keep 
them  respectably  fat  and  to  hide  with  decent  garments 
the  evidence  that  they  were. 

It  was  decided  after  several  weeks  of  disastrous  and 
well-nigh  humiliating  experiments  with  restaurants  that 
they  would  join  the  great  army  of  the  delicatessen-fed, 
so  he  took  up  his  old  way  of  life  again,  in  that  he  stopped 
every  evening  at  Braegdort's  delicatessen  and  bought  po 
tatoes  in  salad,  ham  in  slices,  and  sometimes  even  stuffed 
tomatoes  in  bursts  of  extravagance. 

Then  he  would  trudge  homeward,  enter  the  dark  hall 
way,  and  climb  three  rickety  flights  of  stairs  covered 
by  an  ancient  carpet  of  long  obliterated  design.  The 
hall  had  an  ancient  smell — of  the  vegetables  of  1880,  of 
the  furniture  polish  in  vogue  when  "Adam-and-Eve" 
Bryan  ran  against  William  McKinley,  of  portieres  an 
ounce  heavier  with  dust,  from  worn-out  shoes  and  lint 
from  dresses  turned  long  since  into  patch-work  quilts. 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  253 

This  smell  would  pursue  him  up  the  stairs,  revivified 
and  made  poignant  at  each  landing  by  the  aura  of  con 
temporary  cooking,  then,  as  he  began  the  next  flight, 
diminishing  into  the  odor  of  the  dead  routine  of  dead 
generations. 

Eventually  would  occur  the  door  of  his  room,  which 
slipped  open  with  indecent  willingness  and  closed  with 
almost  a  sniff  upon  his  "Hello,  dear!  Got  a  treat  for 
you  to-night." 

Olive,  who  always  rode  home  on  the  bus  to  "get  a 
morsel  of  air,"  would  be  making  the  bed  and  hanging  up 
things.  At  his  call  she  would  come  up  to  him  and  give 
him  a  quick  kiss  with  wide-open  eyes,  while  he  held  her 
upright  like  a  ladder,  his  hands  on  her  two  arms,  as 
though  she  were  a  thing  without  equilibrium,  and  would, 
once  he  relinquished  hold,  fall  stiffly  backward  to  the 
floor.  This  is  the  kiss  that  comes  in  with  the  second 
year  of  marriage,  succeeding  the  bridegroom  kiss  (which 
is  rather  stagey  at  best,  say  those  who  know  about  such 
things,  and  apt  to  be  copied  from  passionate  movies). 

Then  came  supper,  and  after  that  they  went  out  for  a 
walk,  up  two  blocks  and  through  Central  Park,  or  some 
times  to  a  moving  picture,  which  taught  them  patiently 
that  they  were  the  sort  of  people  for  whom  life  was  or 
dered,  and  that  something  very  grand  and  brave  and 
beautiful  would  soon  happen  to  them  if  they  were  docile 
and  obedient  to  their  rightful  superiors  and  kept  away 
from  pleasure. 

Such  was  their  day  for  three  years.  Then  change 
came  into  their  lives:  Olive  had  a  baby,  and  as  a  result 
Merlin  had  a  new  influx  of  material  resources.  In  the 
third  week  of  Olive's  confinement,  after  an  hour  of  ner 
vous  rehearsing,  he  went  into  the  office  of  Mr.  Moon 
light  Quill  and  demanded  an  enormous  increase  in 
salary. 


254  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Fve  been  here  ten  years,"  he  said;  "since  I  was 
nineteen.  I've  always  tried  to  do  my  best  in  the  in 
terests  of  the  business." 

Mr.  Moonlight  Quill  said  that  he  would  think  it  over. 
Next  morning  he  announced,  to  Merlin's  great  delight, 
that  he  was  going  to  put  into  effect  a  project  long  pre 
meditated — he  was  going  to  retire  from  active  work  in 
the  bookshop,  confining  himself  to  periodic  visits  and 
leaving  Merlin  as  manager  with  a  salary  of  fifty  dollars 
a  week  and  a  one-tenth  interest  in  the  business.  When 
the  old  man  finished,  Merlin's  cheeks  were  glowing  and 
his  eyes  full  of  tears.  He  seized  his  employer's  hand  and 
shook  it  violently,  saying  over  and  over  again: 

"It's  very  nice  of  you,  sir.  It's  very  white  of  you. 
It's  very,  very  nice  of  you." 

So  after  ten  years  of  faithful  work  in  the  store  he  had 
won  out  at  last.  Looking  back,  he  saw  his  own  progress 
toward  this  hill  of  elation  no  longer  as  a  sometimes 
sordid  and  always  gray  decade  of  worry  and  failing  en 
thusiasm  and  failing  dreams,  years  when  the  moonlight 
had  grown  duller  in  the  areaway  and  the  youth  had 
faded  out  of  Olive's  face,  but  as  a  glorious  and  trium 
phant  climb  over  obstacles  which  he  had  determinedly 
surmounted  by  unconquerable  will-power.  The  opti 
mistic  self-delusion  that  had  kept  him  from  misery  was 
seen  now  in  the  golden  garments  of  stern  resolution. 
Half  a  dozen  times  he  had  taken  steps  to  leave  the  Moon 
light  Quill  and  soar  upward,  but  through  sheer  faint 
heartedness  he  had  stayed  on.  Strangely  enough  he 
now  thought  that  those  were  times  when  he  had  exerted 
tremendous  persistence  and  had  "determined"  to  fight 
it  out  where  he  was. 

At  any  rate,  let  us  not  for  this  moment  begrudge 
Merlin  his  new  and  magnificent  view  of  himself.  He 
had  arrived.  At  thirty  he  had  reached  a  post  of  im- 


"O  RUSSET  WITCH!"  255 

portance.  He  left  the  shop  that  evening  fairly  radiant, 
invested  every  penny  in  his  pocket  in  the  most  tremen 
dous  feast  that  Braegdort's  delicatessen  offered,  and 
staggered  homeward  with  the  great  news  and  four  gi 
gantic  paper  bags.  The  fact  that  Olive  was  too  sick  to 
eat,  that  he  made  himself  faintly  but  unmistakably  ill 
by  a  struggle  with  four  stuffed  tomatoes,  and  that  most 
of  the  food  deteriorated  rapidly  in  an  iceless  ice-box  all 
next  day  did  not  mar  the  occasion.  For  the  first  time 
since  the  week  of  his  marriage  Merlin  Grainger  lived 
under  a  sky  of  unclouded  tranquillity. 

The  baby  boy  was  christened  Arthur,  and  life  became 
dignified,  significant,  and,  at  length,  centered.  Merlin 
and  Olive  resigned  themselves  to  a  somewhat  secondary 
place  in  their  own  cosmos;  but  what  they  lost  in  per 
sonality  they  regained  in  a  sort  of  primordial  pride. 
The  country  house  did  not  come,  but  a  month  in  an 
Asbury  Park  boarding-house  each  summer  filled  the 
gap;  and  during  Merlin's  two  weeks'  holiday  this  excur 
sion  assumed  the  air  of  a  really  merry  jaunt — especially 
when,  with  the  baby  asleep  in  a  wide  room  opening  tech 
nically  on  the  sea,  Merlin  strolled  with  Olive  along  the 
thronged  board-walk  puffing  at  his  cigar  and  trying  to 
look  like  twenty  thousand  a  year. 

With  some  alarm  at  the  slowing  up  of  the  days  and 
the  accelerating  of  the  years,  Merlin  became  thirty-one, 
thirty-two — then  almost  with  a  rush  arrived  at  that 
age  which,  with  all  its  washing  and  panning,  can  only 
muster  a  bare  handful  of  the  precious  stuff  of  youth :  he 
became  thirty-five.  And  one  day  on  Fifth  Avenue  he 
saw  Caroline. 

It  was  Sunday,  a  radiant,  flowerful  Easter  morning 
and  the  avenue  was  a  pageant  of  lilies  and  cutaways 
and  happy  April-colored  bonnets.  Twelve  o'clock:  the 
great  churches  were  letting  out  their  people — St.  Simon's, 


256  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

St.  Hilda's,  the  Church  of  the  Epistles,  opened  their 
doors  like  wide  mouths  until  the  people  pouring  forth 
surely  resembled  happy  laughter  as  they  met  and 
strolled  and  chattered,  or  else  waved  white  bouquets  at 
waiting  chauffeurs. 

In  front  of  the  Church  of  the  Epistles  stood  its  twelve 
vestrymen,  carrying  out  the  time-honored  custom  of 
giving  away  Easter  eggs  full  of  face-powder  to  the 
church-going  debutantes  of  the  year.  Around  them 
delightedly  danced  the  two  thousand  miraculously 
groomed  children  of  the  very  rich,  correctly  cute  and 
curled,  shining  like  sparkling  little  jewels  upon  their 
mothers'  fingers.  Speaks  the  sentimentalist  for  the 
children  of  the  poor  ?  Ah,  but  the  children  of  the  rich, 
laundered,  sweet-smelling,  complexioned  of  the  country, 
and,  above  all,  with  soft,  in-door  voices. 

Little  Arthur  was  five,  child  of  the  middle  class.  Un 
distinguished,  unnoticed,  with  a  nose  that  forever 
marred  what  Grecian  yearnings  his  features  might  have 
had,  he  held  tightly  to  his  mother's  warm,  sticky  hand, 
and,  with  Merlin  on  his  other  side,  moved  upon  the 
home-coming  throng.  At  Fifty- third  Street,  where 
there  were  two  churches,  the  congestion  was  at  its  thick 
est,  its  richest.  Their  progress  was  of  necessity  retarded 
to  such  an  extent  that  even  little  Arthur  had  not  the 
slightest  difficulty  in  keeping  up.  Then  it  was  that 
Merlin  perceived  an  open  landaulet  of  deepest  crimson, 
with  handsome  nickel  trimmings,  glide  slowly  up  to 
the  curb  and  come  to  a  stop.  In  it  sat  Caroline. 

She  was  dressed  in  black,  a  tight-fitting  gown  trimmed 
with  lavender,  flowered  at  the  waist  with  a  corsage  of 
orchids.  Merlin  started  and  then  gazed  at  her  fear 
fully.  For  the  first  time  in  the  eight  years  since  his 
marriage  he  was  encountering  the  girl  again.  But  a  girl 
no  longer.  Her  figure  was  slim  as  ever — or  perhaps 


"O  RUSSET  WITCH!"  257 

not  quite,  for  a  certain  boyish  swagger,  a  sort  of  in 
solent  adolescence,  had  gone  the  way  of  the  first  bloom 
ing  of  her  cheeks.  But  she  was  beautiful;  dignity  was 
there  now,  and  the  charming  lines  of  a  fortuitous  nine- 
and- twenty;  and  she  sat  in  the  car  with  such  perfect 
appropriateness  and  self-possession  that  it  made  him 
breathless  to  watch  her. 

Suddenly  she  smiled — the  smile  of  old,  bright  as  that 
very  Easter  and  its  flowers,  mellower  than  ever — yet 
somehow  with  not  quite  the  radiance  and  infinite  prom 
ise  of  that  first  smile  back  there  in  the  bookshop  nine 
years  before.  It  was  a  steelier  smile,  disillusioned 
and  sad. 

But  it  was  soft  enough  and  smile  enough  to  make  a 
pair  of  young  men  in  cutaway  coats  hurry  over,  to  pull 
their  high  hats  off  their  wetted,  iridescent  hair;  to  bring 
them,  flustered  and  bowing,  to  the  edge  of  her  landaulet, 
where  her  lavender  gloves  gently  touched  their  gray 
ones.  And  these  two  were  presently  joined  by  another, 
and  then  two  more,  until  there  was  a  rapidly  swelling 
crowd  around  the  landaulet.  Merlin  would  hear  a 
young  man  beside  him  say  to  his  perhaps  well-favored 
companion  : 

"If  you'll  just  pardon  me  a  moment,  there's  some  one 
I  have  to  speak  to.  Walk  right  ahead.  I'll  catch  up." 

Within  three  minutes  every  inch  of  the  landaulet, 
front,  back,  and  side,  was  occupied  by  a  man — a  man 
trying  to  construct  a  sentence  clever  enough  to  find  its 
way  to  Caroline  through  the  stream  of  conversation. 
Luckily  for  Merlin  a  portion  of  little  Arthur's  clothing 
had  chosen  the  opportunity  to  threaten  a  collapse,  and 
Olive  had  hurriedly  rushed  him  over  against  a  building 
for  some  extemporaneous  repair  work,  so  Merlin  was 
able  to  watch,  unhindered,  the  salon  in  the  street. 

The  crowd  swelled.    A  row  formed  in  back  of  the  first, 


258  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

two  more  behind  that.  In  the  midst,  an  orchid  rising 
from  a  black  bouquet,  sat  Caroline  enthroned  in  her 
obliterated  car,  nodding  and  crying  salutations  and 
smiling  with  such  true  happiness  that,  of  a  sudden,  a 
new  relay  of  gentlemen  had  left  their  wives  and  consorts 
and  were  striding  toward  her. 

The  crowd,  now  phalanx  deep,  began  to  be  augmented 
by  the  merely  curious;  men  of  all  ages  who  could  not 
possibly  have  known  Caroline  jostled  over  and  melted 
into  the  circle  of  ever-increasing  diameter,  until  the  lady 
in  lavender  was  the  centre  of  a  vast  impromptu  audi 
torium. 

All  about  her  were  faces — clean-shaven,  bewhiskered, 
old,  young,  ageless,  and  now,  here  and  there,  a  woman. 
The  mass  was  rapidly  spreading  to  the  opposite  curb, 
and,  as  St.  Anthony's  around  the  corner  let  out  its 
box-holders,  it  overflowed  to  the  sidewalk  and  crushed 
up  against  the  iron  picket-fence  of  a  millionaire  across 
the  street.  The  motors  speeding  along  the  avenue  were 
compelled  to  stop,  and  in  a  jiffy  were  piled  three,  five, 
and  six  deep  at  the  edge  of  the  crowd;  auto-busses,  top- 
heavy  turtles  of  traffic,  plunged  into  the  jam,  their 
passengers  crowding  to  the  edges  of  the  roofs  in  wild 
excitement  and  peering  down  into  the  centre  of  the 
mass,  which  presently  could  hardly  be  seen  from  the 
mass's  edge. 

The  crush  had  become  terrific.  No  fashionable  audi 
ence  at  a  Yale-Princeton  football  game,  no  damp  mob 
at  a  world's  series,  could  be  compared  with  the  panoply 
that  talked,  stared,  laughed,  and  honked  about  the 
lady  in  black  and  lavender.  It  was  stupendous;  it  was 
terrible.  A  quarter  mile  down  the  block  a  half-frantic 
policeman  called  his  precinct;  on  the  same  corner  a 
frightened  civilian  crashed  in  the  glass  of  a  fire-alarm 
and  sent  in  a  wild  paean  for  all  the  fire-engines  of  the 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  259 

city;  up  in  an  apartment  high  in  one  of  the  tall  buildings 
a  hysterical  old  maid  telephoned  in  turn  for  the  prohibi 
tion  enforcement  agent,  the  special  deputies  on  Bolshev 
ism,  and  the  maternity  ward  of  Bellevue  Hospital. 

The  noise  increased.  The  first  fire-engine  arrived, 
filling  the  Sunday  air  with  smoke,  clanging  and  crying 
a  brazen,  metallic  message  down  the  high,  resounding 
walls.  In  the  notion  that  some  terrible  calamity  had 
overtaken  the  city,  two  excited  deacons  ordered  special 
services  immediately  and  set  tolling  the  great  bells  of  St. 
Hilda's  and  St.  Anthony's,  presently  joined  by  the  jeal 
ous  gongs  of  St.  Simon's  and  the  Church  of  the  Epistles. 
Even  far  off  in  the  Hudson  and  the  East  River  the  sounds 
of  the  commotion  were  heard,  and  the  ferry-boats  and 
tugs  and  ocean  liners  set  up  sirens  and  whistles  that 
sailed  in  melancholy  cadence,  now  varied,  now  reiterated, 
across  the  whole  diagonal  width  of  the  city  from  River 
side  Drive  to  the  gray  water-fronts  of  the  lower  East 
Side.  ... 

In  the  centre  of  her  landaulet  sat  the  lady  in  black 
and  lavender,  chatting  pleasantly  first  with  one,  then 
with  another  of  that  fortunate  few  in  cutaways  who  had 
found  their  way  to  speaking  distance  in  the  first  rush. 
After  a  while  she  glanced  around  her  and  beside  her 
with  a  look  of  growing  annoyance. 

She  yawned  and  asked  the  man  nearest  her  if  he 
couldn't  run  in  somewhere  and  get  her  a  glass  of  water. 
The  man  apologized  in  some  embarrassment.  He  could 
not  have  moved  hand  or  foot.  He  could  not  have 
scratched  his  own  ear.  .  .  . 

As  the  first  blast  of  the  river  sirens  keened  along  the 
air,  Olive  fastened  the  last  safety-pin  in  little  Arthur's 
rompers  and  looked  up.  Merlin  saw  her  start,  stiffen 
slowly  like  hardening  stucco,  and  then  give  a  little  gasp 
of  surprise  and  disapproval. 


26o  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"That  woman,"  she  cried  suddenly.  "Oh !" 
She  flashed  a  glance  at  Merlin  that  mingled  reproach 
and  pain,  and  without  another  word  gathered  up  little 
Arthur  with  one  hand,  grasped  her  husband  by  the 
other,  and  darted  amazingly  in  a  winding,  bumping  can 
ter  through  the  crowd.  Somehow  people  gave  way  be 
fore  her;  somehow  she  managed  to  retain  her  grasp  on 
her  son  and  husband;  somehow  she  managed  to  emerge 
two  blocks  up,  battered  and  dishevelled,  into  an  open 
space,  and,  without  slowing  up  her  pace,  darted  down  a 
side-street.  Then  at  last,  when  uproar  had  died  away 
into  a  dim  and  distant  clamor,  did  she  come  to  a  walk 
and  set  little  Arthur  upon  his  feet. 

"And  on  Sunday,  too !  Hasn't  she  disgraced  herself 
enough?"  This  was  her  only  comment.  She  said  it 
to  Arthur,  as  she  seemed  to  address  her  remarks  to  Arthur 
throughout  the  remainder  of  the  day.  For  some  cu 
rious  and  esoteric  reason  she  had  never  once  looked  at 
her  husband  during  the  entire  retreat. 

IV 

The  years  between  thirty-five  and  sixty-five  revolve 
before  the  passive  mind  as  one  unexplained,  confusing 
merry-go-round.  True,  they  are  a  merry-go-round  of 
ill-gaited  and  wind-broken  horses,  painted  first  in  pastel 
colors,  then  in  dull  grays  and  browns,  but  perplexing 
and  intolerably  dizzy  the  thing  is,  as  never  were  the 
merry-go-rounds  of  childhood  or  adolescence,  as  never, 
surely,  were  the  certain-coursed,  dynamic  roller-coasters 
of  youth.  For  most  men  and  women  these  thirty  years 
are  taken  up  with  a  gradual  withdrawal  from  life,  a  re 
treat  first  from  a  front  with  many  shelters,  those  myriad 
amusements  and  curiosities  of  youth,  to  a  line  with  less, 
when  we  peel  down  our  ambitions  to  one  ambition,  our 


"O  RUSSET  WITCH!"  261 

recreations  to  one  recreation,  our  friends  to  a  few  to 
whom  we  are  anaesthetic;  ending  up  at  last  in  a  soli 
tary,  desolate  strong  point  that  is  not  strong,  where  the 
shells  now  whistle  abominably,  now  are  but  half-heard 
as,  by  turns  frightened  and  tired,  we  sit  waiting  for 
death. 

At  forty,  then,  Merlin  was  no  different  from  himself 
at  thirty-five;  a  larger  paunch,  a  gray  twinkling  near 
his  ears,  a  more  certain  lack  of  vivacity  in  his  walk. 
His  forty-five  differed  from  his  forty  by  a  like  margin, 
unless  one  mention  a  slight  deafness  in  his  left  ear. 
But  at  fifty-five  the  process  had  become  a  chemical 
change  of  immense  rapidity.  Yearly  he  was  more  and 
more  an  "old  man"  to  his  family — senile  almost,  so  far 
as  his  wife  was  concerned.  He  was  by  this  time  com 
plete  owner  of  the  bookshop.  The  mysterious  Mr. 
Moonlight  Quill,  dead  some  five  years  and  not  survived 
by  his  wife,  had  deeded  the  whole  stock  and  store  to 
him,  and  there  he  still  spent  his  days,  conversant  now 
by  name  with  almost  all  that  man  has  recorded  for  three 
thousand  years,  a  human  catalogue,  an  authority  upon 
tooling  and  binding,  upon  folios  and  first  editions,  an 
accurate  inventory  of  a  thousand  authors  whom  he  could 
never  have  understood  and  had  certainly  never  read. 

At  sixty-five  he  distinctly  doddered.  He  had  assumed 
the  melancholy  habits  of  the  aged  so  often  portrayed 
by  the  second  old  man  in  standard  Victorian  comedies. 
He  consumed  vast  warehouses  of  time  searching  for  mis 
laid  spectacles.  He  "nagged"  his  wife  and  was  nagged 
in  turn.  He  told  the  same  jokes  three  or  four  times  a 
year  at  the  family  table,  and  gave  his  son  weird,  impossi 
ble  directions  as  to  his  conduct  in  life.  Mentally  and 
materially  he  was  so  entirely  different  from  the  Merlin 
Grainger  of  twenty-five  that  it  seemed  incongruous  that 
he  should  bear  the  same  name. 


262  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

He  worked  still  in  the  bookshop  with  the  assistance 
of  a  youth,  whom,  of  course,  he  considered  very  idle, 
indeed,  and  a  new  young  woman,  Miss  Gaffney.  Miss 
McCracken,  ancient  and  unvenerable  as  himself,  still 
kept  the  accounts.  Young  Arthur  was  gone  into  Wall 
Street  to  sell  bonds,  as  all  the  young  men  seemed  to  be 
doing  in  that  day.  This,  of  course,  was  as  it  should  be. 
Let  old  Merlin  get  what  magic  he  could  from  his  books — 
the  place  of  young  King  Arthur  was  in  the  counting- 
house. 

One  afternoon  at  four  when  he  had  slipped  noiselessly 
up  to  the  front  of  the  store  on  his  soft-soled  slippers, 
led  by  a  newly  formed  habit,  of  which,  to  be  fair,  he 
was  rather  ashamed,  of  spying  upon  the  young  man 
clerk,  he  looked  casually  out  of  the  front  window,  strain 
ing  his  faded  eyesight  to  reach  the  street.  A  limousine, 
large,  portentous,  impressive,  had  drawn  to  the  curb,  and 
the  chauffeur,  after  dismounting  and  holding  some  sort 
of  conversation  with  persons  in  the  interior  of  the  car, 
turned  about  and  advanced  in  a  bewildered  fashion 
toward  the  entrance  of  the  Moonlight  Quill.  He  opened 
the  door,  shuffled  in,  and,  glancing  uncertainly  at  the  old 
man  in  the  skull-cap,  addressed  him  in  a  thick,  murky 
voice,  as  though  his  words  came  through  a  fog. 

"Do  you — do  you  sell  additions?" 

Merlin  nodded. 

"The  arithmetic  books  are  in  the  back  of  the  store." 

The  chauffeur  took  off  his  cap  and  scratched  a  close- 
cropped,  fuzzy  head. 

"  Oh,  naw.  This  I  want's  a  detecatif  story."  He  jerked 
a  thumb  back  toward  the  limousine.  "She  seen  it  in 
the  paper.  Firs'  addition." 

Merlin's  interest  quickened.  Here  was  possibly  a 
big  sale. 

"Oh,  editions.    Yes,   we've  advertised  some  firsts, 


"O  RUSSET  WITCH!"  263 

but — detective  stories,  I — don't — believe — What  was  the 
title?" 

"I  forget.    About  a  crime." 

"About  a  crime.  I  have — well,  I  have  'The  Crimes 
of  the  Borgias' — full  morocco,  London  1769,  beauti- 
fully- 

"Naw,"  interrupted  the  chauffeur,  "this  was  one  fella 
did  this  crime.  She  seen  you  had  it  for  sale  in  the 
paper."  He  rejected  several  possible  titles  with  the  air 
of  connoisseur. 

"'Silver  Bones,'"  he  announced  suddenly  out  of  a 
slight  pause. 

"What  ?"  demanded  Merlin,  suspecting  that  the  stiff 
ness  of  his  sinews  were  being  commented  on. 

"Silver  Bones.  That  was  the  guy  that  done  the 
crime." 

"Silver  Bones?" 

"  Silver  Bones.    Indian,  maybe." 

Merlin  stroked  his  grizzly  cheeks. 

"Gees,  Mister,"  went  on  the  prospective  purchaser, 
"if  you  wanna  save  me  an  awful  bawlin'  out  jes'  try  an' 
think.  The  old  lady  goes  wile  if  everything  don't  run 
smooth." 

But  Merlin's  musings  on  the  subject  of  Silver  Bones 
were  as  futile  as  his  obliging  search  through  the  shelves, 
and  five  minutes  later  a  very  dejected  charioteer  wound 
his  way  back  to  his  mistress.  Through  the  glass  Merlin 
could  see  the  visible  symbols  of  a  tremendous  uproar 
going  on  in  the  interior  of  the  limousine.  The  chauffeur 
made  wild,  appealing  gestures  of  his  innocence,  evidently^ 
to  no  avail,  for  when  he  turned  around  and  climbed 
back  into  the  driver's  seat  his  expression  was  not  a  little 
dejected. 

Then  the  door  of  the  limousine  opened  and  gave  forth 
a  pale  and  slender  young  man  of  about  twenty,  dressed 


264  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

in  the  attenuation  of  fashion  and  carrying  a  wisp  of  a 
cane.  He  entered  the  shop,  walked  past  Merlin,  and 
proceeded  to  take  out  a  cigarette  and  light  it.  Merlin 
approached  him. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  sir  ?" 

"Old  boy,"  said  the  youth  coolly,  "there  are  seveereal 
things.  You  can  first  let  me  smoke  my  ciggy  in  here  out 
of  sight  of  that  old  lady  in  the  limousine,  who  happens 
to  be  my  grandmother.  Her  knowledge  as  to  whether 
I  smoke  it  or  not  before  my  majority  happens  to  be  a 
matter  of  five  thousand  dollars  to  me.  The  second  thing 
is  that  you  should  look  up  your  first  edition  of  the 
*  Crime  of  Sylvester  Bonnard'  that  you  advertised  in 
last  Sunday's  Times.  My  grandmother  there  happens 
to  want  to  take  it  off  your  hands." 

Detecatif  story !  Crime  of  somebody !  Silver  Bones ! 
All  was  explained.  With  a  faint  deprecatory  chuckle, 
as  if  to  say  that  he  would  have  enjoyed  this  had  life 
put  him  in  the  habit  of  enjoying  anything,  Merlin  dod 
dered  away  to  the  back  of  his  shop  where  his  treasures 
were  kept,  to  get  this  latest  investment  which  he  had 
picked  up  rather  cheaply  at  the  sale  of  a  big  collection. 

When  he  returned  with  it  the  young  man  was  drawing 
on  his  cigarette  and  blowing  out  quantities  of  smoke 
with  immense  satisfaction. 

"My  God!"  he  said.  "She  keeps  me  so  close  to  her 
the  entire  day  running  idiotic  errands  that  this  happens 
to  be  my  first  puff  in  six  hours.  What's  the  world  com 
ing  to,  I  ask  you,  when  a  feeble  old  lady  in  the  milk-toast 
era  can  dictate  to  a  man  as  to  his  personal  vices  ?  I 
happen  to  be  unwilling  to  be  so  dictated  to.  Let's  see 
the  book." 

Merlin  passed  it  to  him  tenderly  and  the  young  man, 
after  opening  it  with  a  carelessness  that  gave  a  mo 
mentary  jump  to  the  book-dealer's  heart,  ran  through 
the  pages  with  his  thumb. 


"O  RUSSET  WITCH!"  265 

"No  illustrations,  eh?"  he  commented.  "Well,  old 
boy,  what's  it  worth?  Speak  up!  We're  willing  to 
give  you  a  fair  price,  though  why  I  don't  know." 

"One  hundred  dollars,"  said  Merlin  with  a  frown. 

The  young  man  gave  a  startled  whistle. 

"Whew!  Come  on.  You're  not  dealing  with  some 
body  from  the  cornbelt.  I  happen  to  be  a  city-bred 
man  and  my  grandmother  happens  to  be  a  city-bred 
woman,  though  I'll  admit  it'd  take  a  special  tax  appro 
priation  to  keep  her  in  repair.  We'll  give  you  twenty- 
five  dollars,  and  let  me  tell  you  that's  liberal.  We've 
got  books  in  our  attic,  up  in  our  attic  with  my  old  play 
things,  that  were  written  before  the  old  boy  that  wrote 
this  was  born." 

Merlin  stiffened,  expressing  a  rigid  and  meticulous 
horror. 

"Did  your  grandmother  give  you  twenty-five  dollars 
to  buy  this  with?" 

"She  did  not.  She  gave  me  fifty,  but  she  expects 
change.  I  know  that  old  lady." 

"You  tell  her,"  said  Merlin  with  dignity,  "that  she 
has  missed  a  very  great  bargain." 

"Give  you  forty,"  urged  the  young  man.  "Come  on 
now — be  reasonable  and  don't  try  to  hold  us  up — 

Merlin  had  wheeled  around  with  the  precious  volume 
under  his  arm  and  was  about  to  return  it  to  its  special 
drawer  in  his  office  when  there  was  a  sudden  interrup 
tion.  With  unheard-of  magnificence  the  front  door 
burst  rather  than  swung  open,  and  admitted  into  the 
dark  interior  a  regal  apparition  in  black  silk  and  fur 
which  bore  rapidly  down  upon  him.  The  cigarette 
leaped  from  the  fingers  of  the  urban  young  man  and  he 
gave  breath  to  an  inadvertent  "Damn!" — but  it  was 
upon  Merlin  that  the  entrance  seemed  to  have  the  most 
remarkable  and  incongruous  effect — so  strong  an  effect 
that  the  greatest  treasure  of  his  shop  slipped  from  his 


266  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

hand  and  joined  the  cigarette  on  the  floor.  Before  him 
stood  Caroline. 

She  was  an  old  woman,  an  old  woman  remarkably 
preserved,  unusually  handsome,  unusually  erect,  but 
still  an  old  woman.  Her  hair  was  a  soft,  beautiful 
white,  elaborately  dressed  and  jewelled;  her  face,  faintly 
rouged  a  la  grande  dame,  showed  webs  of  wrinkles  at 
the  edges  of  her  eyes  and  two  deeper  lines  in  the  form  of 
stanchions  connected  her  nose  with  the  corners  of  her 
mouth.  Her  eyes  were  dim,  ill  natured,  and  querulous. 

But  it  was  Caroline  without  a  doubt:  Caroline's  fea 
tures  though  in  decay;  Caroline's  figure,  if  brittle  and 
stiff  in  movement;  Caroline's  manner,  unmistakably 
compounded  of  a  delightful  insolence  and  an  enviable 
self  assurance;  and,  most  of  all,  Caroline's  voice,  broken 
and  shaky,  yet  with  a  ring  in  it  that  still  could  and  did 
make  chauffeurs  want  to  drive  laundry  wagons  and 
cause  cigarettes  to  fall  from  the  fingers  of  urban  grand 
sons. 

She  stood  and  sniffed.  Her  eyes  found  the  cigarette 
upon  the  floor. 

"What's  that?"  she  cried.  The  words  were  not  a 
question — they  were  an  entire  litany  of  suspicion,  accu 
sation,  confirmation,  and  decision.  She  tarried  over 
them  scarcely  an  instant.  "Stand  up !"  she  said  to  her 
grandson,  "stand  up  and  blow  that  nicotine  out  of  your 
lungs!" 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  in  trepidation. 

"Blow!"  she  commanded. 

He  pursed  his  lips  feebly  and  blew  into  the  air. 

"Blow !"  she  repeated,  more  peremptorily  than  before. 

He  blew  again,  helplessly,  ridiculously. 

"Do  you  realize,"  she  went  on  briskly,  "that  you've 
forfeited  five  thousand  dollars  in  five  minutes  ?" 

Merlin  momentarily  expected  the  young  man  to  fall 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  267 

pleading  upcn  his  knees,  but  such  is  the  nobility  of  hu 
man  nature  that  he  remained  standing — even  blew 
again  into  the  air,  partly  from  nervousness,  partly,  no 
doubt,  with  some  vague  hope  of  reingratiating  him 
self. 

"Young  ass!"  cried  Caroline.  "Once  more,  just 
once  more  and  you  leave  college  and  go  to  work." 

This  threat  had  such  an  overwhelming  effect  upon 
the  young  man  that  he  took  on  an  even  paler  pallor  than 
was  natural  to  him.  But  Caroline  was  not  through. 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  know  what  you  and  your 
brothers,  yes,  and  your  asinine  father  too,  think  of  me  ? 
Well,  I  do.  You  think  I'm  senile.  You  think  I'm 
soft.  I'm  not!"  She  struck  herself  with  her  fist  as 
though  to  prove  that  she  was  a  mass  of  muscle  and 
sinew.  "And  I'll  have  more  brains  left  when  you've 
got  me  laid  out  in  the  drawing-room  some  sunny  day 
than  you  and  the  rest  of  them  were  born  with." 

"But  Grandmother " 

"Be  quiet.  You,  a  thin  little  stick  of  a  boy,  who  if  it 
weren't  for  my  money  might  have  risen  to  be  a  journey 
man  barber  out  in  the  Bronx — Let  me  see  your  hands. 
Ugh !  The  hands  of  a  barber — you  presume  to  be  smart 
with  me,  who  once  had  three  counts  and  a  bona-fide  duke, 
not  to  mention  half  a  dozen  papal  titles  pursue  me  from 
the  city  of  Rome  to  the  city  of  New  York."  She  paused, 
took  breath.  "  Stand  up !  Blow ! " 

The  young  man  obediently  blew.  Simultaneously 
the  door  opened  and  an  excited  gentleman  of  middle  age 
who  wore  a  coat  and  hat  trimmed  with  fur,  and  seemed, 
moreover,  to  be  trimmed  with  the  same  sort  of  fur  him 
self  on  upper  lip  and  chin,  rushed  into  the  store  and  up 
to  Caroline. 

"Found  you  at  last,"  he  cried.  "Been  looking  for 
you  all  over  town.  Tried  your  house  on  the  'phone  and 


268  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

your  secretary  told  me  he  thought  you'd  gone  to  a  book 
shop  called  the  Moonlight 

Caroline  turned  to  him  irritably. 

"Do  I  employ  you  for  your  reminiscences?"  she 
snapped.  "Are  you  my  tutor  or  my  broker?" 

"Your  broker,"  confessed  the  fur-trimmed  man,  taken 
somewhat  aback.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  I  came  about 
that  phonograph  stock.  I  can  sell  for  a  hundred  and 
five." 

"Then  do  it." 

"Very  well.    I  thought  I'd  better " 

"  Go  sell  it.    I'm  talking  to  my  grandson." 

"Very  well.    I " 

"Good-by." 

"Good-by,  Madame."  The  fur-trimmed  man  made 
a  slight  bow  and  hurried  in  some  confusion  from  the 
shop. 

"As  for  you,"  said  Caroline,  turning  to  her  grandson, 
"you  stay  just  where  you  are  and  be  quiet." 

She  turned  to  Merlin  and  included  his  entire  length 
in  a  not  unfriendly  survey.  Then  she  smiled  and  he 
found  himself  smiling  too.  In  an  instant  they  had  both 
broken  into  a  cracked  but  none  the  less  spontaneous 
chuckle.  She  seized  his  arm  and  hurried  him  to  the 
other  side  of  the  store.  There  they  stopped,  faced  each 
other,  and  gave  vent  to  another  long  fit  of  senile  glee. 

"It's  the  only  way,"  she  gasped  in  a  sort  of  triumphant 
malignity.  "The  only  thing  that  keeps  old  folks  like 
me  happy  is  the  sense  that  they  can  make  other  people 
step  around.  To  be  old  and  rich  and  have  poor  de 
scendants  is  almost  as  much  fun  as  to  be  young  and 
beautiful  and  have  ugly  sisters." 

"Oh,  yes,"  chuckled  Merlin.    "I  know.    I  envy  you." 

She  nodded,  blinking. 

"The  last  time  I  was  in  here,  forty  years  ago,"  she 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  269 

said,  "you  were  a  young  man  very  anxious  to  kick  up 
your  heels." 

"I  was,"  he  confessed. 

"My  visit  must  have  meant  a  good  deal  to  you." 

"You  have  all  along,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  thought — I 
used  to  think  at  first  that  you  were  a  real  person- 
human,  I  mean." 

She  laughed. 

"Many  men  have  thought  me  inhuman." 

"But  now,"  continued  Merlin  excitedly,  "I  under 
stand.  Understanding  is  allowed  to  us  old  people- 
after  nothing  much  matters.  I  see  now  that  on  a  cer 
tain  night  when  you  danced  upon  a  table-top  you  were 
nothing  but  my  romantic  yearning  for  a  beautiful  and 
perverse  woman." 

Her  old  eyes  were  far  away,  her  voice  no  more  than 
the  echo  of  a  forgotten  dream. 

"How  I  danced  that  night!    I  remember." 

"You  were  making  an  attempt  at  me.  Olive's  arms 
were  closing  about  me  and  you  warned  me  to  be  free  and 
keep  my  measure  of  youth  and  irresponsibility.  But 
it  seemed  like  an  effect  gotten  up  at  the  last  moment. 
It  came  too  late." 

"You  are  very  old,"  she  said  inscrutably.  "I  did  not 
realize." 

"Also  I  have  not  forgotten  what  you  did  to  me  when 
I  was  thirty-five.  You  shook  me  with  that  traffic  tie-up. 
It  was  a  magnificent  effort.  The  beauty  and  power  you 
radiated !  You  became  personified  even  to  my  wife,  and 
she  feared  you.  For  weeks  I  wanted  to  slip  out  of  the 
house  at  dark  and  forget  the  stuffiness  of  life  with  music 
and  cocktails  and  a  girl  to  make  me  young.  But  then 
— I  no  longer  knew  how." 

"And  now  you  are  so  very  old." 

With  a  sort  of  awe  she  moved  back  and  away  from  him. 


270  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Yes,  leave  me!"  he  cried.  "You  are  old  also;  the 
spirit  withers  with  the  skin.  Have  you  come  here  only 
to  tell  me  something  I  had  best  forget:  that  to  be  old 
and  poor  is  perhaps  more  wretched  than  to  be  old  and 
rich;  to  remind  me  that  my  son  hurls  my  gray  failure  in 
my  face?" 

"Give  me  my  book,"  she  commanded  harshly.  "Be 
quick,  old  man!" 

Merlin  looked  at  her  once  more  and  then  patiently 
obeyed.  He  picked  up  the  book  and  handed  it  to  her, 
shaking  his  head  when  she  offered  him  a  bill. 

"Why  go  through  the  farce  of  paying  me?  Once 
you  made  me  wreck  these  very  premises." 

"I  did,"  she  said  in  anger,  "and  I'm  glad.  Perhaps 
there  had  been  enough  done  to  ruin  me." 

She  gave  him  a  glance,  half  disdain,  half  ill-concealed 
uneasiness,  and  with  a  brisk  word  to  her  urban  grandson 
moved  toward  the  door. 

Then  she  was  gone — out  of  his  shop — out  of  his  life. 
The  door  clicked.  With  a  sigh  he  turned  and  walked 
brokenly  back  toward  the  glass  partition  that  enclosed 
the  yellowed  accounts  of  many  years  as  well  as  the  mel 
lowed,  wrinkled  Miss  McCracken. 

Merlin  regarded  her  parched,  cobwebbed  face  with 
an  odd  sort  of  pity.  She,  at  any  rate,  had  had  less  from 
life  than  he.  No  rebellious,  romantic  spirit  cropping  out 
unbidden  had,  in  its  memorable  moments,  given  her  life 
a  zest  and  a  glory. 

Then  Miss  McCracken  looked  up  and  spoke  to  him: 

"Still  a  spunky  old  piece,  isn't  she?" 

Merlin  started. 

"Who?" 

"Old  Alicia  Dare.  Mrs.  Thomas  Allerdyce  she  is 
now,  of  course;  has  been  these  thirty  years." 

"What  ?  I  don't  understand  you."  Merlin  sat  down 
suddenly  in  his  swivel  chair;  his  eyes  were  wide. 


"0  RUSSET  WITCH!"  271 

""Why,  surely,  Mr.  Grainger,  you  can't  tell  me  that 
you've  forgotten  her,  when  for  ten  years  she  was  the 
most  notorious  character  in  New  York.  Why,  one  time 
when  she  was  the  corespondent  in  the  Throckmorton 
divorce  case  she  attracted  so  much  attention  on  Fifth 
Avenue  that  there  was  a  traffic  tie-up.  Didn't  you  read 
about  it  in  the  papers." 

"I  never  used  to  read  the  papers."  His  ancient  brain 
was  whirring. 

"Well,  you  can't  have  forgotten  the  time  she  came  in 
here  and  ruined  the  business.  Let  me  tell  you  I  came 
near  asking  Mr.  Moonlight  Quill  for  my  salary,  and 
clearing  out." 

"Do  you  mean  that — that  you  saw  her  ?" 

"Saw  her!  How  could  I  help  it  with  the  racket 
that  went  on.  Heaven  knows  Mr.  Moonlight  Quill 
didn't  like  it  either,  but  of  course  he  didn't  say  anything. 
He  was  daffy  about  her  and  she  could  twist  him  around 
her  little  finger.  The  second  he  opposed  one  of  her  whims 
she'd  threaten  to  tell  his  wife  on  him.  Served  him  right. 
The  idea  of  that  man  falling  for  a  pretty  adventuress ! 
Of  course  he  was  never  rich  enough  for  her,  even  though 
the  shop  paid  well  in  those  days." 

"But  when  I  saw  her,"  stammered  Merlin,  "that  is, 
when  I  thought  I  saw  her,  she  lived  with  her  mother." 

"Mother,  trash!"  said  Miss  McCracken  indignantly. 
"She  had  a  woman  there  she  called  ' Aunty'  who  was  no 
more  related  to  her  than  I  am.  Oh,  she  was  a  bad  one 
— but  clever.  Right  after  the  Throckmorton  divorce 
case  she  married  Thomas  Allerdyce,  and  made  herself 
secure  for  life." 

"  Who  was  she  ? "  cried  Merlin.  "For  God's  sake  what 
was  she — a  witch  ?" 

"Why,  she  was  Alicia  Dare,  the  dancer,  of  course. 
In  those  days  you  couldn't  pick  up  a  paper  without  find 
ing  her  picture." 


272  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Merlin  sat  very  quiet,  his  brain  suddenly  fatigued 
and  stilled.  He  was  an  old  man  now  indeed,  so  old  that 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  dream  of  ever  having  been 
young,  so  old  that  the  glamour  was  gone  out  of  the  world, 
passing  not  into  the  faces  of  children  and  into  the  per 
sistent  comforts  of  warmth  and  life,  but  passing  out  of 
the  range  of  sight  and  feeling.  He  was  never  to  smile 
again  or  to  sit  in  a  long  reverie  when  spring  evenings 
wafted  the  cries  of  children  in  at  his  window  until  grad 
ually  they  became  the  friends  of  his  boyhood  out  there, 
urging  him  to  come  and  play  before  the  last  dark  came 
down.  He  was  too  old  now  even  for  memories. 

That  night  he  sat  at  supper  with  his  wife  and  son,  who 
had  used  him  for  their  blind  purposes.  Olive  said: 

"Don't  sit  there  like  a  death's-head.     Say  something." 

"Let  him  sit  quiet,"  growled  Arthur.  "If  you  en 
courage  him  he'll  tell  us  a  story  we've  heard  a  hundred 
times  before." 

Merlin  went  up-stairs  very  quietly  at  nine  o'clock. 
When  he  was  in  his  room  and  had  closed  the  door  tight 
he  stood  by  it  for  a  moment,  his  thin  limbs  trembling. 
He  knew  now  that  he  had  always  been  a  fool. 

"O  Russet  Witch!" 

But  it  was  too  late.  He  had  angered  Providence  by 
resisting  too  many  temptations.  There  was  nothing 
left  but  heaven,  where  he  would  meet  only  those  who, 
like  him,  had  wasted  earth. 


UNCLASSIFIED   MASTERPIECES 


THE  LEES   OF  HAPPINESS 

IF  you  should  look  through  the  files  of  old  magazines 
for  the  first  years  of  the  present  century  you  would  find, 
sandwiched  in  between  the  stories  of  Richard  Harding 
Davis  and  Frank  Norris  and  others  long  since  dead, 
the  work  of  one  Jeffrey  Curtain :  a  novel  or  two,  and  per 
haps  three  or  four  dozen  short  stories.  You  could,  if 
you  were  interested,  follow  them  along  until,  say,  1908, 
when  they  suddenly  disappeared. 

When  you  had  read  them  all  you  would  have  been 
quite  sure  that  here  were  no  masterpieces — here  were 
passably  amusing  stories,  a  bit  out  of  date  now,  but 
doubtless  the  sort  that  would  then  have  whiled  away  a 
dreary  half  hour  in  a  dental  office.  The  man  who  did 
them  was  of  good  intelligence,  talented,  glib,  probably 
young.  In  the  samples  of  his  work  you  found  there 
would  have  been  nothing  to  stir  you  to  more  than  a  faint 
interest  in  the  whims  of  life — no  deep  interior  laughs, 
no  sense  of  futility  or  hint  of  tragedy. 

After  reading  them  you  would  yawn  and  put  the  num 
ber  back  in  the  files,  and  perhaps,  if  you  were  in  some 
library  reading-room,  you  would  decide  that  by  way  of 
variety  you  would  look  at  a  newspaper  of  the  period 
and  see  whether  the  Japs  had  taken  Port  Arthur.  But 
if  by  any  chance  the  newspaper  you  had  chosen  was  the 
right  one  and  had  crackled  open  at  the  theatrical  page, 
your  eyes  would  have  been  arrested  and  held,  and  for  at 
least  a  minute  you  would  have  forgotten  Port  Arthur 
as  quickly  as  you  forgot  Chateau  Thierry.  For  you 
would,  by  this  fortunate  chance,  be  looking  at  the  por 
trait  of  an  exquisite  woman. 

275 


276  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Those  were  the  days  of  "Florodora"  and  of  sextets,  of 
pinched-in  waists  and  blown-out  sleeves,  of  almost 
bustles  and  absolute  ballet  skirts,  but  here,  without 
doubt,  disguised  as  she  might  be  by  the  unaccustomed 
stiffness  and  old  fashion  of  her  costume,  was  a  butterfly 
of  butterflies.  Here  was  the  gayety  of  the  period — the 
soft  wine  of  eyes,  the  songs  that  flurried  hearts,  the  toasts 
and  the  bouquets,  the  dances  and  the  dinners.  Here 
was  a  Venus  of  the  hansom  cab,  the  Gibson  girl  in  her 
glorious  prime.  Here  was  .  .  . 

.  .  .  here  was,  you  find  by  looking  at  the  name  be 
neath,  one  Roxanne  Milbank,  who  had  been  chorus  girl 
and  understudy  in  "The  Daisy  Chain/'  but  who,  by 
reason  of  an  excellent  performance  when  the  star  was 
indisposed,  had  gained  a  leading  part. 

You  would  look  again — and  wonder.  Why  you  had 
never  heard  of  her.  Why  did  her  name  not  linger  in 
popular  songs  and  vaudeville  jokes  and  cigar  bands,  and 
the  memory  of  that  gay  old  uncle  of  yours  along  with 
Lillian  Russell  and  Stella  Mayhew  and  Anna  Held  ? 
Roxanne  Milbank — whither  had  she  gone  ?  What  dark 
trap-door  had  opened  suddenly  and  swallowed  her  up  ? 
Her  name  was  certainly  not  in  last  Sunday's  supplement 
on  that  list  of  actresses  married  to  English  noblemen. 
No  doubt  she  was  dead — poor  beautiful  young  lady — 
and  quite  forgotten. 

I  am  hoping  too  much.  I  am  having  you  stumble  on 
Jeffrey  Curtain's  stories  and  Roxanne  Milbank's  pic 
ture.  It  would  be  incredible  that  you  should  find  a 
newspaper  item  six  months  later,  a  single  item  two  inches 
by  four,  which  informed  the  public  of  the  marriage,  very 
quietly,  of  Miss  Roxanne  Milbank,  who  had  been  on  tour 
with  "The  Daisy  Chain/'  to  Mr.  Jeffrey  Curtain,  the 
popular  author.  "Mrs.  Curtain,"  it  added  dispas 
sionately,  "will  retire  from  the  stage." 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  277 

It  was  a  marriage  of  love.  He  was  sufficiently  spoiled 
to  be  charming;  she  was  ingenuous  enough  to  be  ir 
resistible.  Like  two  floating  logs  they  met  in  a  head-on 
rush,  caught,  and  sped  along  together.  Yet  had  Jeffrey 
Curtain  kept  at  scrivening  for  twoscore  years  he  could 
not  have  put  a  quirk  into  one  of  his  stories  weirder  than 
the  quirk  that  came  into  his  own  life.  Had  Roxanne 
Milbank  played  three  dozen  parts  and  rilled  five  thou 
sand  houses  she  could  never  have  had  a  role  with  more 
happiness  and  more  despair  than  were  in  the  fate  pre 
pared  for  Roxanne  Curtain. 

For  a  year  they  lived  in  hotels,  travelled  to  California, 
to  Alaska,  to  Florida,  to  Mexico,  loved  and  quarrelled 
gently,  and  gloried  in  the  golden  triflings  of  his  wit  with 
her  beauty — they  were  young  and  gravely  passionate; 
they  demanded  everything  and  then  yielded  everything 
again  in  ecstasies  of  unselfishness  and  pride.  She  loved 
the  swift  tones  of  his  voice  and  his  frantic,  unfounded 
jealousy.  He  loved  her  dark  radiance,  the  white  irises 
of  her  eyes,  the  warm,  lustrous  enthusiasm  of  her  smile. 

"Don't  you  like  her?"  he  would  demand  rather  ex 
citedly  and  shyly.  ' '  Isn'  t  she  wonderful  ?  Did  you  ever 

"Yes,"  they  would  answer,  grinning.  "She's  a  won 
der.  You're  lucky." 

The  year  passed.  They  tired  of  hotels.  They  bought 
an  old  house  and  twenty  acres  near  the  town  of  Mar 
lowe,  half  an  hour  from  Chicago;  bought  a  little  car, 
and  moved  out  riotously  with  a  pioneering  hallucination 
that  would  have  confounded  Balboa. 

"Your  room  will  be  here!"  they  cried  in  turn. 

— And  then: 

"And  my  room  here !" 

"And  the  nursery  here  when  we  have  children." 

"And  we'll  build  a  sleeping  porch — oh,  next  year." 


278  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

They  moved  out  in  April.  In  July  Jeffrey's  closest 
friend,  Harry  Cromwell,  came  to  spend  a  week — they 
met  him  at  the  end  of  the  long  lawn  and  hurried  him 
proudly  to  the  house. 

Harry  was  married  also.  His  wife  had  had  a  baby 
some  six  months  before  and  was  still  recuperating  at  her 
mother's  in  New  York.  Roxanne  had  gathered  from 
Jeffrey  that  Harry's  wife  was  not  as  attractive  as  Harry 
— Jeffrey  had  met  her  once  and  considered  her — "shal 
low."  But  Harry  had  been  married  nearly  two  years 
and  was  apparently  happy,  so  Jeffrey  guessed  that  she 
was  probably  all  right  .  .  . 

"I'm  making  biscuits,"  chattered  Roxanne  gravely. 
"Can  your  wife  make  biscuits?  The  cook  is  showing 
me  how.  I  think  every  woman  should  know  how  to 
make  biscuits.  It  sounds  so  utterly  disarming.  A 
woman  who  can  make  biscuits  can  surely  do  no " 

"You'll  have  to  come  out  here  and  live,"  said  Jeffrey. 
"Get  a  place  out  in  the  country  like  us,  for  you  and 
Kitty." 

1 '  You  don't  know  Kitty.  She  hates  the  country.  She's 
got  to  have  her  theatres  and  vaudevilles." 

"Bring  her  out,"  repeated  Jeffrey.  "We'll  have  a 
colony.  There's  an  awfully  nice  crowd  here  already. 
Bring  her  out!" 

They  were  at  the  porch  steps  now  and  Roxanne  made 
a  brisk  gesture  toward  a  dilapidated  structure  on  the 
right. 

"The  garage,"  she  announced.  "It  will  also  be  Jef 
frey's  writing-room  within  the  month.  Meanwhile  din 
ner  is  at  seven.  Meanwhile  to  that  I  will  mix  a  cocktail." 

The  two  men  ascended  to  the  second  floor — that  is, 
they  ascended  half-way,  for  at  the  first  landing  Jeffrey 
dropped  his  guest's  suitcase  and  in  a  cross  between  a 
query  and  a  cry  exclaimed: 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  279 

"For  God's  sake,  Harry,  how  do  you  like  her?" 

"We  will  go  up-stairs,"  answered  his  guest,  "and  we 
will  shut  the  door." 

Half  an  hour  later  as  they  were  sitting  together  in  the 
library  Roxanne  reissued  from  the  kitchen,  bearing  be 
fore  her  a  pan  of  biscuits.  Jeffrey  and  Harry  rose. 

"They're  beautiful,  dear,"  said  the  husband,  intensely. 

"Exquisite,"  murmured  Harry. 

Roxanne  beamed. 

"Taste  one.  I  couldn't  bear  to  touch  them  before 
you'd  seen  them  all  and  I  can't  bear  to  take  them  back 
until  I  find  what  they  taste  like." 

"Like  manna,  darling." 

Simultaneously  the  two  men  raised  the  biscuits  to 
their  lips,  nibbled  tentatively.  Simultaneously  they 
tried  to  change  the  subject.  But  Roxanne,  undeceived, 
set  down  the  pan  and  seized  a  biscuit.  After  a  second 
her  comment  rang  out  with  lugubrious  finality: 

"Absolutely  bum!" 

"Really " 

"Why,  I  didn't  notice " 

Roxanne  roared. 

"Oh,  I'm  useless,"  she  cried  laughing.  " Turn  me  out, 
Jeffrey — I'm  a  parasite;  I'm  no  good — • — " 

Jeffrey  put  his  arm  around  her. 

"Darling,  I'll  eat  your  biscuits." 

"They're  beautiful,  anyway,"  insisted  Roxanne. 

"They're — they're  decorative,"  suggested  Harry. 

Jeffrey  took  him  up  wildly. 

"That's  the  word.  They're  decorative;  they're  mas 
terpieces.  We'll  use  them." 

He  rushed  to  the  kitchen  and  returned  with  a  hammer 
and  a  handful  of  nails. 

"We'll  use  them,  by  golly,  Roxanne!  We'll  make  a 
frieze  out  of  them." 


28o  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"Don't!57  wailed  Roxanne.     "Our  beautiful  house." 

"Never  mind.  We're  going  to  have  the  library  re- 
papered  in  October.  Don't  you  remember?" 

"Well " 

Bang!  The  first  biscuit  was  impaled  to  the  wall, 
where  it  quivered  for  a  moment  like  a  live  thing. 

Bang!  .  .  . 

When  Roxanne  returned  with  a  second  round  of  cock 
tails  the  biscuits  were  in  a  perpendicular  row,  twelve  of 
them,  like  a  collection  of  primitive  spear-heads. 

"Roxanne,"  exclaimed  Jeffrey,  "you're  an  artist! 
Cook? — nonsense!  You  shall  illustrate  my  books!" 

During  dinner  the  twilight  faltered  into  dusk,  and  later 
it  was  a  starry  dark  outside,  filled  and  permeated  with 
the  frail  gorgeousness  of  Roxanne's  white  dress  and  her 
tremulous,  low  laugh. 

— Such  a  little  girl  she  is,  thought  Harry.  Not  as  old 
as  Kitty. 

He  compared  the  two.  Kitty — nervous  without  be 
ing  sensitive,  temperamental  without  temperament, 
a  woman  who  seemed  to  flit  and  never  light — and  Rox 
anne,  who  was  as  young  as  spring  night,  and  summed  up 
in  her  own  adolescent  laughter. 

—A  good  match  for  Jeffrey,  he  thought  again.  Two 
very  young  people,  the  sort  who'll  stay  very  young  until 
they  suddenly  find  themselves  old. 

Harry  thought  these  things  between  his  constant 
thoughts  about  Kitty.  He  was  depressed  about  Kitty. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  well  enough  to  come  back 
to  Chicago  and  bring  his  little  son.  He  was  thinking 
vaguely  of  Kitty  when  he  said  good-night  to  his  friend's 
wife  and  his  friend  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"You're  our  first  real  house  guest,"  called  Roxanne 
after  him.  "Aren't  you  thrilled  and  proud  ?" 

When  he  was  out  of  sight  around  the  stair  corner  she 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  281 

turned  to  Jeffrey,  who  was  standing  beside  her  resting 

his  hand  on  the  end  of  the  banister. 
"Are  you  tired,  my  dearest?" 

Jeffrey  rubbed  the  centre  of  his  forehead  with  his  fingers. 
"A  little.    How  did  you  know  ?" 
"Oh,  how  could  I  help  knowing  about  you?" 
"It's  a  headache,"  he  said  moodily.     " Splitting.     I'll 

take  some  aspirin." 
She  reached  over  and  snapped  out  the  light,  and  with 

his  arm  tight  about  her  waist  they  walked  up  the  stairs 

together. 

II 

Harry's  week  passed.  They  drove  about  the  dream 
ing  lanes  or  idled  in  cheerful  inanity  upon  lake  or  lawn. 
In  the  evening  Roxanne,  sitting  inside,  played  to  them 
while  the  ashes  whitened  on  the  glowing  ends  of  their 
cigars.  Then  came  a  telegram  from  Kitty  saying  that 
she  wanted  Harry  to  come  East  and  get  her,  so  Rox 
anne  and  Jeffrey  were  left  alone  in  that  privacy  of  which 
they  never  seemed  to  tire. 

"Alone"  thrilled  them  again.  They  wandered  about 
the  house,  each  feeling  intimately  the  presence  of  the 
other;  they  sat  on  the  same  side  of  the  table  like  honey- 
mooners;  they  were  intensely  absorbed,  intensely  happy. 

The  town  of  Marlowe,  though  a  comparatively  old 
settlement,  had  only  recently  acquired  a  "society." 
Five  or  six  years  before,  alarmed  at  the  smoky  swelling 
of  Chicago,  two  or  three  young  married  couples,  "bun 
galow  people," had  moved  out;  their  friends  had  followed. 
The  Jeffrey  Curtains  found  an  already  formed  "set"  pre 
pared  to  welcome  them;  a  country  club,  ballroom,  and 
golf  links  yawned  for  them,  and  there  were  bridge  parties, 
and  poker  parties,  and  parties  where  they  drank  beer, 
and  parties  where  they  drank  nothing  at  all. 


TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

It  was  at  a  poker  party  that  they  found  themselves  a 
week  after  Harry's  departure.  There  were  two  tables, 
and  a  good  proportion  of  the  young  wives  were  smoking 
and  shouting  their  bets,  and  being  very  daringly  mannish 
for  those  days. 

Roxanne  had  left  the  game  early  and  taken  to  per 
ambulation;  she  wandered  into  the  pantry  and  found 
herself  some  grape  juice — beer  gave  her  a  headache — 
and  then  passed  from  table  to  table,  looking  over  shoul 
ders  at  the  hands,  keeping  an  eye  on  Jeffrey  and  being 
pleasantly  unexcited  and  content.  Jeffrey,  with  intense 
concentration,  was  raising  a  pile  of  chips  of  all  colors, 
and  Roxanne  knew  by  the  deepened  wrinkle  between  his 
eyes  that  he  was  interested.  She  liked  to  see  him  in 
terested  in  small  things. 

She  crossed  over  quietly  and  sat  down  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair. 

She  sat  there  five  minutes,  listening  to  the  sharp  inter 
mittent  comments  of  the  men  and  the  chatter  of  the 
women,  which  rose  from  the  table  like  soft  smoke — and 
yet  scarcely  hearing  either.  Then  quite  innocently  she 
reached  out  her  hand,  intending  to  place  it  on  Jeffrey's 
shoulder — as  it  touched  him  he  started  of  a  sudden, 
gave  a  short  grunt,  and,  sweeping  back  his  arm  furious 
ly,  caught  her  a  glancing  blow  on  her  elbow. 

There  was  a  general  gasp.  Roxanne  regained  her 
balance,  gave  a  little  cry,  and  rose  quickly  to  her  feet. 
It  had  been  the  greatest  shock  of  her  life.  This,  from 
Jeffrey,  the  heart  of  kindness,  of  consideration — this 
instinctively  brutal  gesture. 

The  gasp  became  a  silence.  A  dozen  eyes  were  turned 
on  Jeffrey,  who  looked  up  as  though  seeing  Roxanne  for 
the  first  time.  An  expression  of  bewilderment  settled 
on  his  face. 

"Why— Roxanne "  he  said  haltingly. 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  283 

Into  a  dozen  minds  entered  a  quick  suspicion,  a  rumor 
of  scandal.  Could  it  be  that  behind  the  scenes  with 
this  couple,  apparently  so  in  love,  lurked  some  curious 
antipathy?  Why  else  this  streak  of  fire  across  such  a 
cloudless  heaven  ? 

"Jeffrey!" — Roxanne's  voice  was  pleading — startled 
and  horrified,  she  yet  knew  that  it  was  a  mistake.  Not 
once  did  it  occur  to  her  to  blame  him  or  to  resent  it. 
Her  word  was  a  trembling  supplication — "Tell  me, 
Jeffrey,"  it  said,  "tell  Roxanne,  your  own  Roxanne." 

"Why,  Roxanne — "  began  Jeffrey  again.  The  be 
wildered  look  changed  to  pain.  He  was  clearly  as 
startled  as  she.  "I  didn't  intend  that,"  he  went  on; 
"you  startled  me.  You — I  felt  as  if  some  one  were  at 
tacking  me.  I — how — why,  how  idiotic ! " 

"Jeffrey!"  Again  the  word  was  a  prayer,  incense 
offered  up  to  a  high  God  through  this  new  and  unfathom 
able  darkness. 

They  were  both  on  their  feet,  they  were  saying  good- 
by,  faltering,  apologizing,  explaining.  There  was  no 
attempt  to  pass  it  off  easily.  That  way  lay  sacrilege. 
Jeffrey  had  not  been  feeling  well,  they  said.  He  had 
become  nervous.  Back  of  both  their  minds  was  the 
unexplained  horror  of  that  blow — the  marvel  that  there 
had  been  for  an  instant  something  between  them — his 
anger  and  her  fear — and  now  to  both  a  sorrow,  mo 
mentary,  no  doubt,  but  to  be  bridged  at  once,  at  once, 
while  there  was  yet  time.  Was  that  swift  water  lashing 
under  their  feet — the  fierce  glint  of  some  uncharted 
chasm  ? 

Out  in  their  car  under  the  harvest  moon  he  talked 
brokenly.  It  was  just — incomprehensible  to  him,  he 
said.  He  had  been  thinking  of  the  poker  game — ab 
sorbed — and  the  touch  on  his  shoulder  had  seemed  like 
an  attack.  An  attack!  He  clung  to  that  word,  flung 


284  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

it  up  as  a  shield.  He  had  hated  what  touched  him. 
With  the  impact  of  his  hand  it  had  gone,  that — nervous 
ness.  That  was  all  he  knew. 

Both  their  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  they  whispered 
love  there  under  the  broad  night  as  the  serene  streets  of 
Marlowe  sped  by.  Later,  when  they  went  to  bed,  they 
were  quite  calm.  Jeffrey  was  to  take  a  week  off  all 
work — was  simply  to  loll,  and  sleep,  and  go  on  long 
walks  until  this  nervousness  left  him.  When  they  had 
decided  this  safety  settled  down  upon  Roxanne.  The 
pillows  underhead  became  soft  and  friendly;  the  bed  on 
which  they  lay  seemed  wide,  and  white,  and  sturdy  be 
neath  the  radiance  that  streamed  in  at  the  window. 

Five  days  later,  in  the  first  cool  of  late  afternoon, 
Jeffrey  picked  up  an  oak  chair  and  sent  it  crashing 
through  his  own  front  window.  Then  he  lay  down  on 
the  couch  like  a  child,  weeping  piteously  and  begging 
to  die.  A  blood  clot  the  size  of  a  marble  had  broken 
in  his  brain. 

Ill 

There  is  a  sort  of  waking  nightmare  that  sets  in  some 
times  when  one  has  missed  a  sleep  or  two,  a  feeling  that 
comes  with  extreme  fatigue  and  a  new  sun,  that  the 
quality  of  the  life  around  has  changed.  It  is  a  fully 
articulate  conviction  that  somehow  the  existence  one 
is  then  leading  is  a  branch  shoot  of  life  and  is  related 
to  life  only  as  a  moving  picture  or  a  mirror — that  the 
people,  and  streets,  and  houses  are  only  projections 
from  a  very  dim  and  chaotic  past.  It  was  in  such  a 
state  that  Roxanne  found  herself  during  the  first  months 
of  Jeffrey's  illness.  She  slept  only  when  she  was  ut 
terly  exhausted;  she  awoke  under  a  cloud.  The  long, 
sober-voiced  consultations,  the  faint  aura  of  medicine 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  285 

in  the  halls,  the  sudden  tiptoeing  in  a  house  that  had 
echoed  to  many  cheerful  footsteps,  and,  most  of  all, 
Jeffrey's  white  face  amid  the  pillows  of  the  bed  they 
had  shared — these  things  subdued  her  and  made  her  in 
delibly  older.  The  doctors  held  out  hope,  but  that  was 
all.  A  long  rest,  they  said,  and  quiet.  So  responsibil 
ity  came  to  Roxanne.  It  was  she  who  paid  the  bills, 
pored  over  his  bank-book,  corresponded  with  his  pub 
lishers.  She  was  in  the  kitchen  constantly.  She  learned 
from  the  nurse  how  to  prepare  his  meals  and  after  the 
first  month  took  complete  charge  of  the  sick-room. 
She  had  had  to  let  the  nurse  go  for  reasons  of  economy. 
One  of  the  two  colored  girls  left  at  the  same  time. 
Roxanne  was  realizing  that  they  had  been  living  from 
short  story  to  short  story. 

The  most  frequent  visitor  was  Harry  Cromwell.  He 
had  been  shocked  and  depressed  by  the  news,  and  though 
his  wife  was  now  living  with  him  in  Chicago  he  found 
time  to  come  out  several  times  a  month.  Roxanne  found 
his  sympathy  welcome — there  was  some  quality  of  suf 
fering  in  the  man,  some  inherent  pitifulness  that  made 
her  comfortable  when  he  was  near.  Roxanne's  nature 
had  suddenly  deepened.  She  felt  sometimes  that  with 
Jeffrey  she  was  losing  her  children  also,  those  children 
that  now  most  of  all  she  needed  and  should  have  had. 

It  was  six  months  after  Jeffrey's  collapse  and  when  the 
nightmare  had  faded,  leaving  not  the  old  world  but  a 
new  one,  grayer  and  colder,  that  she  went  to  see  Harry's 
wife.  Finding  herself  in  Chicago  with  an  extra  hour 
before  train  time,  she  decided  out  of  courtesy  to  call. 

As  she  stepped  inside  the  door  she  had  an  immediate 
impression  that  the  apartment  was  very  like  some 
place  she  had  seen  before — and  almost  instantly  she 
remembered  a  round-the-corner  bakery  of  her  child 
hood,  a  bakery  full  of  rows  and  rows  of  pink  frosted 


286  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

cakes — a  stuffy  pink,  pink  as  a  food,  pink  triumphant, 
vulgar,  and  odious. 

And  this  apartment  was  like  that.  It  was  pink.  It 
smelled  pink ! 

Mrs.  Cromwell,  attired  in  a  wrapper  of  pink  and  black, 
opened  the  door.  Her  hair  was  yellow,  heightened, 
Roxanne  imagined,  by  a  dash  of  peroxide  in  the  rinsing 
water  every  week.  Her  eyes  were  a  thin  waxen  blue 
— she  was  pretty  and  too  consciously  graceful.  Her 
cordiality  was  strident  and  intimate,  hostility  melted 
so  quickly  to  hospitality  that  it  seemed  they  were  both 
merely  in  the  face  and  voice — never  touching  nor 
touched  by  the  deep  core  of  egotism  beneath. 

But  to  Roxanne  these  things  were  secondary;  her 
eyes  were  caught  and  held  in  uncanny  fascination  by 
the  wrapper.  It  was  vilely  unclean.  From  its  lowest 
hem  up  four  inches  it  was  sheerly  dirty  with  the  blue 
dust  of  the  floor;  for  the  next  three  inches  it  was  gray — 
then  it  shaded  off  into  its  natural  color,  which  was — 
pink.  It  was  dirty  at  the  sleeves,  too,  and  at  the  col 
lar — and  when  the  woman  turned  to  lead  the  way  into 
the  parlor,  Roxanne  was  sure  that  her  neck  was  dirty. 

A  one-sided  rattle  of  conversation  began.  Mrs. 
Cromwell  became  explicit  about  her  likes  and  dislikes, 
her  head,  her  stomach,  her  teeth,  her  apartment — avoid 
ing  with  a  sort  of  insolent  meticulousness  any  inclusion 
of  Roxanne  with  life,  as  if  presuming  that  Roxanne, 
having  been  dealt  a  blow,  wished  life  to  be  carefully 
skirted. 

Roxanne  smiled.    That  kimono!    That  neck! 

After  five  minutes  a  little  boy  toddled  into  the  par 
lor — a  dirty  little  boy  clad  in  dirty  pink  rompers.  His 
face  was  smudgy — Roxanne  wanted  to  take  him  into 
her  lap  and  wipe  his  nose;  other  parts  in  the  vicinity  of 
his  head  needed  attention,  his  tiny  shoes  were  kicked 
out  at  the  toes.  Unspeakable ! 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  287 

"What  a  darling  little  boy!"  exclaimed  Roxanne, 
smiling  radiantly.  "Come  here  to  me." 

Mrs.  Cromwell  looked  coldly  at  her  son. 

"  He  will  get  dirty.  Look  at  that  face ! "  She  held  her 
head  on  one  side  and  regarded  it  critically. 

"Isn't  he  a  darling?"  repeated  Roxanne. 

"Look  at  his  rompers,"  frowned  Mrs.  Cromwell. 

"He  needs  a  change,  don't  you,  George  ?" 

George  stared  at  her  curiously.  To  his  mind  the  word 
rompers  connotated  a  garment  extraneously  smeared, 
as  this  one. 

"I  tried  to  make  him  look  respectable  this  morning," 
complained  Mrs.  Cromwell  as  one  whose  patience  had 
been  sorely  tried,  "and  I  found  he  didn't  have  any 
more  rompers — so  rather  than  have  him  go  round  with 
out  any  I  put  him  back  in  those — and  his  face 

"How  many  pairs  has  he?"  Roxanne's  voice  was 
pleasantly  curious.  "How  many  feather  fans  have 
you  ?"  she  might  have  asked. 

"Oh, "  Mrs.  Cromwell  considered,  wrinkling  her 

pretty  brow.  "Five,  I  think.  Plenty,  I  know." 

"You  can  get  them  for  fifty  cents  a  pair." 

Mrs.  Cromwell's  eyes  showed  surprise — and  the  faint 
est  superiority.  The  price  of  rompers ! 

"  Can  you  really  ?  I  had  no  idea.  He  ought  to  have 
plenty,  but  I  haven't  had  a  minute  all  week  to  send  the 
laundry  out."  Then,  dismissing  the  subject  as  irrele 
vant — "I  must  show  you  some  things 

They  rose  and  Roxanne  followed  her  past  an  open 
bathroom  door  whose  garment-littered  floor  showed  in 
deed  that  the  laundry  hadn't  been  sent  out  for  some 
time,  into  another  room  that  was,  so  to  speak,  the 
quintessence  of  pinkness.  This  was  Mrs.  Cromwell's 
room. 

Here  the  hostess  opened  a  closet  door  and  displayed 
before  Roxanne's  eyes  an  amazing  collection  of  lingerie. 


288  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

There  were  dozens  of  filmy  marvels  of  lace  and  silk,  all 
clean,  unruffled,  seemingly  not  yet  touched.  On  hangers 
beside  them  were  three  new  evening  dresses. 

"I  have  some  beautiful  things/'  said  Mrs.  Cromwell, 
"but  not  much  of  a  chance  to  wear  them.  Harry  doesn't 
care  about  going  out."  Spite  crept  into  her  voice. 
"He's  perfectly  content  to  let  me  play  nursemaid  and 
housekeeper  all  day  and  loving  wife  in  the  evening." 

Roxanne  smiled  again. 

"You've  got  some  beautiful  clothes  here." 

"Yes,  I  have.    Let  me  show  you " 

"Beautiful,"  repeated  Roxanne,  interrupting,  "but 
I'll  have  to  run  if  I'm  going  to  catch  my  train." 

She  felt  that  her  hands  were  trembling.  She  wanted 
to  put  them  on  this  woman  and  shake  her — shake  her. 
She  wanted  her  locked  up  somewhere  and  set  to  scrub 
bing  floors. 

"Beautiful,"  she  repeated,  "and  I  just  came  in  for  a 
moment." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  Harry  isn't  here." 

They  moved  toward  the  door. 

" — and,  oh,"  said  Roxanne  with  an  effort — yet  her 
voice  was  still  gentle  and  her  lips  were  smiling — "I 
think  it's  Argile's  where  you  can  get  those  rompers. 
Good-by." 

It  was  not  until  she  had  reached  the  station  and  bought 
her  ticket  to  Marlowe  that  Roxanne  realized  it  was  the 
first  five  minutes  in  six  months  that  her  mind  had  been 
off  Jeffrey. 

IV 

A  week  later  Harry  appeared  at  Marlowe,  arrived 
unexpectedly  at  five  o'clock,  and  coming  up  the  walk 
sank  into  a  porch  chair  in  a  state  of  exhaustion.  Rox 
anne  herself  had  had  a  busy  day  and  was  worn  out.  The 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  289 

doctors  were  coming  at  five-thirty,  bringing  a  celebrated 
nerve  specialist  from  New  York.  She  was  excited  and 
thoroughly  depressed,  but  Harry's  eyes  made  her  sit 
down  beside  him. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

" Nothing,  Roxanne,"  he  denied.  "I  came  to  see 
how  Jeff  was  doing.  Don't  you  bother  about  me." 

"Harry,"  insisted  Roxanne,  "there's  something  the 
matter." 

"Nothing,"  he  repeated.     "How's  Jeff  ?" 

Anxiety  darkened  her  face. 

"He's  a  little  worse,  Harry.  Doctor  Jewett  has 
come  on  from  New  York.  They  thought  he  could  tell 
me  something  definite.  He's  going  to  try  and  find 
whether  this  paralysis  has  anything  to  do  with  the  origi 
nal  blood  clot." 

Harry  rose. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  he  said  jerkily.  "I  didn't  know 
you  expected  a  consultation.  I  wouldn't  have  come.  I 
thought  I'd  just  rock  on  your  porch  for  an  hour " 

"Sit  down,"  she  commanded. 

Harry  hesitated. 

"Sit  down,  Harry,  dear  boy."  Her  kindness  flooded 
out  now — enveloped  him.  "I  know  there's  something 
the  matter.  You're  white  as  a  sheet.  I'm  going  to 
get  you  a  cool  bottle  of  beer." 

All  at  once  he  collapsed  into  his  chair  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

"I  can't  make  her  happy,"  he  said  slowly.  "I've  tried 
and  I've  tried.  This  morning  we  had  some  words  about 
breakfast — I'd  been  getting  my  breakfast  down  town— 
and — well,  just  after  I  went  to  the  office  she  left  the 
house,  went  East  to  her  mother's  with  George  and  a 
suitcase  full  of  lace  underwear." 

"Harry!" 


290  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"And  I  don't  know " 

There  was  a  crunch  on  the  gravel,  a  car  turning  into 
the  drive.  Roxanne  uttered  a  little  cry. 

"It's  Doctor  Jewett." 

"Oh,  I'll " 

"You'll  wait,  won't  you?"  she  interrupted  abstract 
edly.  He  saw  that  his  problem  had  already  died  on  the 
troubled  surface  of  her  mind. 

There  was  an  embarrassing  minute  of  vague,  elided 
introductions  and  then  Harry  followed  the  party  inside 
and  watched  them  disappear  up  the  stairs.  He  went 
into  the  library  and  sat  down  on  the  big  sofa. 

For  an  hour  he  watched  the  sun  creep  up  the  pat 
terned  folds  of  the  chintz  curtains.  In  the  deep  quiet 
a  trapped  wasp  buzzing  on  the  inside  of  the  window 
pane  assumed  the  proportions  of  a  clamor.  From  time 
to  time  another  buzzing  drifted  down  from  up-stairs, 
resembling  several  more  larger  wasps  caught  on  larger 
window-panes.  He  heard  low  footfalls,  the  clink  of 
bottles,  the  clamor  of  pouring  water.  * 

What  had  he  and  Roxanne  done  that  life  should  deal 
these  crashing  blows  to  them?  Up-stairs  there  was 
taking  place  a  living  inquest  on  the  soul  of  his  friend; 
he  was  sitting  here  in  a  quiet  room  listening  to  the  plaint 
of  a  wasp,  just  as  when  he  was  a  boy  he  had  been  com 
pelled  by  a  strict  aunt  to  sit  hour-long  on  a  chair  and 
atone  for  some  misbehavior.  But  who  had  put  him 
here  ?  What  ferocious  aunt  had  leaned  out  of  the  sky 
to  make  him  atone  for — what  ? 

About  Kitty  he  felt  a  great  hopelessness.  She  was 
too  expensive — that  was  the  irremediable  difficulty. 
Suddenly  he  hated  her.  He  wanted  to  throw  her  down 
and  kick  at  her — to  tell  her  she  was  a  cheat  and  a  leech 
— that  she  was  dirty.  Moreover,  she  must  give  him  his 
boy. 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  291 

He  rose  and  began  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 
Simultaneously  he  heard  some  one  begin  walking  along 
the  hallway  up-stairs  in  exact  time  with  him.  He  found 
himself  wondering  if  they  would  walk  in  time  until  the 
person  reached  the  end  of  the  hall. 

Kitty  had  gone  to  her  mother.  God  help  her,  what 
a  mother  to  go  to!  He  tried  to  imagine  the  meeting: 
the  abused  wife  collapsing  upon  the  mother's  breast. 
He  could  not.  That  Kitty  was  capable  of  any  deep 
grief  was  unbelievable.  He  had  gradually  grown  to 
think  of  her  as  something  unapproachable  and  callous. 
She  would  get  a  divorce,  of  course,  and  eventually  she 
would  marry  again.  He  began  to  consider  this.  Whom 
would  she  marry?  He  laughed  bitterly,  stopped;  a 
picture  flashed  before  him — of  Kitty's  arms  around 
some  man  whose  face  he  could  not  see,  of  Kitty's  lips 
pressed  close  to  other  lips  in  what  was  surely  passion. 

"  God ! "  he  cried  aloud.    "  God !  God !  God ! " 

Then  the  pictures  came  thick  and  fast.  The  Kitty 
of  this  morning  faded;  the  soiled  kimono  rolled  up  and 
disappeared;  the  pouts,  and  rages,  and  tears  all  were 
washed  away.  Again  she  was  Kitty  Carr — Kitty  Carr 
with  yellow  hair  and  great  baby  eyes.  Ah,  she  had 
loved  him,  she  had  loved  him. 

After  a  while  he  perceived  that  something  was  amiss 
with  him,  something  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  Kitty 
or  Jeff,  something  of  a  different  genre.  Amazingly  it 
burst  on  him  at  last;  he  was  hungry.  Simple  enough! 
He  would  go  into  the  kitchen  in  a  moment  and  ask  the 
colored  cook  for  a  sandwich.  After  that  he  must  go 
back  to  the  city. 

He  paused  at  the  wall,  jerked  at  something  round, 
and,  fingering  it  absently,  put  it  to  his  mouth  and  tasted 
it  as  a  baby  tastes  a  bright  toy.  His  teeth  closed  on  it 
—Ah! 


292  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

She'd  left  that  damn  kimono,  that  dirty  pink  kimono. 
She  might  have  had  the  decency  to  take  it  with  her,  he 
thought.  It  would  hang  in  the  house  like  the  corpse 
of  their  sick  alliance.  He  would  try  to  throw  it  away, 
but  he  would  never  be  able  to  bring  himself  to  move  it. 
It  would  be  like  Kitty,  soft  and  pliable,  withal  imper 
vious.  You  couldn't  move  Kitty;  you  couldn't  reach 
Kitty.  There  was  nothing  there  to  reach.  He  under 
stood  that  perfectly — he  had  understood  it  all  along. 

He  reached  to  the  wall  for  another  biscuit  and  with  an 
effort  pulled  it  out,  nail  and  all.  He  carefully  removed 
the  nail  from  the  centre,  wondering  idly  if  he  had  eaten 
the  nail  with  the  first  biscuit.  Preposterous !  He  would 
have  remembered — it  was  a  huge  nail.  He  felt  his 
stomach.  He  must  be  very  hungry.  He  considered — 
remembered — yesterday  he  had  had  no  dinner.  It  was 
the  girl's  day  out  and  Kitty  had  lain  in  her  room  eating 
chocolate  drops.  She  had  said  she  felt  "smothery"  and 
couldn't  bear  having  him  near  her.  He  had  given  George 
a  bath  and  put  him  to  bed,  and  then  lain  down  on  the 
couch  intending  to  rest  a  minute  before  getting  his  own 
dinner.  There  he  had  fallen  asleep  and  awakened  about 
eleven,  to  find  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  ice-box 
except  a  spoonful  of  potato  salad.  This  he  had  eaten, 
together  with  some  chocolate  drops  that  he  found  on 
Kitty's  bureau.  This  morning  he  had  breakfasted  hur 
riedly  down  town  before  going  to  the  office.  But  at 
noon,  beginning  to  worry  about  Kitty,  he  had  decided 
to  go  home  and  take  her  out  to  lunch.  After  that  there 
had  been  the  note  on  his  pillow.  The  pile  of  lingerie 
in  the  closet  was  gone — and  she  had  left  instructions  for 
sending  her  trunk. 

He  had  never  been  so  hungry,  he  thought. 

At  five  o'clock,  when  the  visiting  nurse  tiptoed  down 
stairs,  he  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  staring  at  the  carpet. 

"Mr.  Cromwell?" 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  293 

"Yes?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Curtain  won't  be  able  to  see  you  at  dinner. 
She's  not  well.  She  told  me  to  tell  you  that  the  cook 
will  fix  you  something  and  that  there's  a  spare  bedroom." 

"She's  sick,  you  say?" 

"She's  lying  down  in  her  room.  The  consultation 
is  just  over." 

"Did  they — did  they  decide  anything?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  nurse  softly.  "Doctor  Jewett  says 
there's  no  hope.  Mr.  Curtain  may  live  indefinitely, 
but  he'll  never  see  again  or  move  again  or  think.  He'll 
just  breathe." 

"Just  breathe?" 

"Yes." 

For  the  first  time  the  nurse  noted  that  beside  the  writ 
ing-desk  where  she  remembered  that  she  had  seen  a  line 
of  a  dozen  curious  round  objects  she  had  vaguely  imag 
ined  to  be  some  exotic  form  of  decoration,  there  was  now 
only  one.  Where  the  others  had  been,  there  was  now 
a  series  of  little  nail-holes. 

Harry  followed  her  glance  dazedly  and  then  rose  to 
his  feet. 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  stay.    I  believe  there's  a  train." 

She  nodded.    Harry  picked  up  his  hat. 

"Good-by,"  she  said  pleasantly. 

"Good-by,"  he  answered,  as  though  talking  to  him 
self  and,  evidently  moved  by  some  involuntary  necessity, 
he  paused  on  his  way  to  the  door  and  she  saw  him  pluck 
the  last  object  from  the  wall  and  drop  it  into  his  pocket. 

Then  he  opened  the  screen  door  and,  descending  the 
porch  steps,  passed  out  of  her  sight. 


After  a  while  the  coat  of  clean  white  paint  on  the 
Jeffrey  Curtain  house  made  a  definite  compromise  with 


294  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

the  suns  of  many  Julys  and  showed  its  good  faith  by 
turning  gray.  It  scaled — huge  peelings  of  very  brittle 
old  paint  leaned  over  backward  like  aged  men  practising 
grotesque  gymnastics  and  finally  dropped  to  a  moldy 
death  in  the  overgrown  grass  beneath.  The  paint  on 
the  front  pillars  became  streaky;  the  white  ball  was 
knocked  off  the  left-hand  door-post;  the  green  blinds 
darkened,  then  lost  all  pretense  of  color. 

It  began  to  be  a  house  that  was  avoided  by  the  tender- 
minded — some  church  bought  a  lot  diagonally  opposite 
for  a  graveyard,  and  this,  combined  with  "the  place 
where  Mrs  Curtain  stays  with  that  living  corpse,"  was 
enough  to  throw  a  ghostly  aura  over  that  quarter  of  the 
road.  Not  that  she  was  left  alone.  Men  and  women 
came  to  see  her,  met  her  down  town,  where  she  went  to 
do  her  marketing,  brought  her  home  in  their  cars — and 
came  in  for  a  moment  to  talk  and  to  rest,  in  the  glamour 
that  still  played  in  her  smile.  But  men  who  did  not 
know  her  no  longer  followed  her  with  admiring  glances 
in  the  street;  a  diaphanous  veil  had  come  down  over  her 
beauty,  destroying  its  vividness,  yet  bringing  neither 
wrinkles  nor  fat. 

She  acquired  a  character  in  the  village — a  group  of 
little  stories  were  told  of  her:  how  when  the  country  was 
frozen  over  one  winter  so  that  no  wagons  nor  automo 
biles  could  travel,  she  taught  herself  to  skate  so  that  she 
could  make  quick  time  to  the  grocer  and  druggist,  and 
not  leave  Jeffrey  alone  for  long.  It  was  said  that  every 
night  since  his  paralysis  she  slept  in  a  small  bed  beside 
his  bed,  holding  his  hand. 

Jeffrey  Curtain  was  spoken  of  as  though  he  were 
already  dead.  As  the  years  dropped  by  those  who  had 
known  him  died  or  moved  away — there  were  but  half 
a  dozen  of  the  old  crowd  who  had  drunk  cocktails  to 
gether,  called  each  other's  wives  by  their  first  names, 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  295 

and  thought  that  Jeff  was  about  the  wittiest  and  most 
talented  fellow  that  Marlowe  had  ever  known.  Now,  to 
the  casual  visitor,  he  was  merely  the  reason  that  Mrs. 
Curtain  excused  herself  sometimes  and  hurried  up-stairs; 
he  was  a  groan  or  a  sharp  cry  borne  to  the  silent  parlor 
on  the  heavy  air  of  a  Sunday  afternoon. 

He  could  not  move;  he  was  stone  blind,  dumb,  and 
totally  unconscious.  All  day  he  lay  in  his  bed,  except 
for  a  shift  to  his  wheel-chair  every  morning  while  she 
straightened  the  room.  His  paralysis  was  creeping 
slowly  toward  his  heart.  At  first — for  the  first  year 
— Roxanne  had  received  the  faintest  answering  pres 
sure  sometimes  when  she  held  his  hand — then  it  had 
gone,  ceased  one  evening  and  never  come  back,  and 
through  two  nights  Roxanne  lay  wide-eyed,  staring  into 
the  dark  and  wondering  what  had  gone,  what  fraction 
of  his  soul  had  taken  flight,  what  last  grain  of  compre 
hension  those  shattered  broken  nerves  still  carried  to 
the  brain. 

After  that  hope  died.  Had  it  not  been  for  her  un 
ceasing  care  the  last  spark  would  have  gone  long  before. 
Every  morning  she  shaved  and  bathed  him,  shifted  him 
with  her  own  hands  from  bed  to  chair  and  back  to  bed. 
She  was  in  his  room  constantly,  bearing  medicine, 
straightening  a  pillow,  talking  to  him  almost  as  one  talks 
to  a  nearly  human  dog,  without  hope  of  response  or 
appreciation,  but  with  the  dim  persuasion  of  habit,  a 
prayer  when  faith  has  gone. 

Not  a  few  people,  one  celebrated  nerve  specialist 
among  them,  gave  her  a  plain  impression  that  it  was 
futile  to  exercise  so  much  care,  that  if  Jeffrey  had  been 
conscious  he  would  have  wished  to  die,  that  if  his  spirit 
were  hovering  in  some  wider  air  it  would  agree  to  no 
such  sacrifice  from  her,  it  would  fret  only  for  the  prison 
of  its  body  to  give  it  full  release. 


296  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"But  you  see,"  she  replied,  shaking  her  head  gently, 
"when  I  married  Jeffrey  it  was — until  I  ceased  to  love 
him." 

"But,"  was  protested,  in  effect,  "you  can't  love  that." 

"I  can  love  what  it  once  was.  What  else  is  there  for 
me  to  do?" 

The  specialist  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  away 
to  say  that  Mrs.  Curtain  was  a  remarkable  woman  and 
just  about  as  sweet  as  an  angel — but,  he  added,  it  was 
a  terrible  pity. 

"There  must  be  some  man,  or  a  dozen,  just  crazy 
to  take  care  of  her.  ..." 

Casually — there  were.  Here  and  there  some  one  be 
gan  in  hope — and  ended  in  reverence.  There  was  no 
love  in  the  woman  except,  strangely  enough,  for  life, 
for  the  people  in  the  world,  from  the  tramp  to  whom 
she  gave  food  she  could  ill  afford  to  the  butcher  who  sold 
her  a  cheap  cut  of  steak  across  the  meaty  board.  The 
other  phase  was  sealed  up  somewhere  in  that  expression 
less  mummy  who  lay  with  his  face  turned  ever  toward 
the  light  as  mechanically  as  a  compass  needle  and 
waited  dumbly  for  the  last  wave  to  wash  over  his 
heart. 

After  eleven  years  he  died  in  the  middle  of  a  May 
night,  when  the  scent  of  the  syringa  hung  upon  the  win 
dow-sill  and  a  breeze  wafted  in  the  shrillings  of  the  frogs 
and  cicadas  outside.  Roxanne  awoke  at  two,  and  real 
ized  with  a  start  she  was  alone  in  the  house  at  last. 


VI 

After  that  she  sat  on  her  weather-beaten  porch  through 
many  afternoons,  gazing  down  across  the  fields  that 
undulated  in  a  slow  descent  to  the  white  and  green  town. 
She  was  wondering  what  she  would  do  with  her  life. 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  297 

She  was  thirty-six — handsome,  strong,  and  free.  The 
years  had  eaten  up  Jeffrey's  insurance;  she  had  reluc 
tantly  parted  with  the  acres  to  right  and  left  of  her, 
and  had  even  placed  a  small  mortgage  on  the  house. 

With  her  husband's  death  had  come  a  great  physical 
restlessness.  She  missed  having  to  care  for  him  in  the 
morning,  she  missed  her  rush  to  town,  and  the  brief 
and  therefore  accentuated  neighborly  meetings  in  the 
butcher's  and  grocer's;  she  missed  the  cooking  for  two, 
the  preparation  of  delicate  liquid  food  for  him.  One  day, 
consumed  with  energy,  she  went  out  and  spaded  up  the 
whole  garden,  a  thing  that  had  not  been  done  for  years. 

And  she  was  alone  at  night  in  the  room  that  had  seen 
the  glory  of  her  marriage  and  then  the  pain.  To  meet 
Jeff  again  she  went  back  in  spirit  to  that  wonderful  year, 
that  intense,  passionate  absorption  and  companionship, 
rather  than  looked  forward  to  a  problematical  meeting 
hereafter;  she  awoke  often  to  lie  and  wish  for  that  pres 
ence  beside  her — inanimate  yet  breathing — still  Jeff. 

One  afternoon  six  months  after  his  death  she  was 
sitting  on  the  porch,  in  a  black  dress  which  took  away 
the  faintest  suggestion  of  plumpness  from  her  figure. 
It  was  Indian  summer — golden  brown  all  about  her; 
a  hush  broken  by  the  sighing  of  leaves;  westward  a 
four  o'clock  sun  dripping  streaks  of  red  and  yellow  over 
a  flaming  sky.  Most  of  the  birds  had  gone — only  a 
sparrow  that  had  built  itself  a  nest  on  the  cornice  of  a 
pillar  kept  up  an  intermittent  cheeping  varied  by  oc 
casional  fluttering  sallies  overhead.  Roxanne  moved 
her  chair  to  where  she  could  watch  him  and  her  mind 
idled  drowsily  on  the  bosom  of  the  afternoon. 

Harry  Cromwell  was  coming  out  from  Chicago  to 
dinner.  Since  his  divorce  over  eight  years  before  he 
had  been  a  frequent  visitor.  They  had  kept  up  what 
amounted  to  a  tradition  between  them:  when  he  ar- 


298  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

rived  they  would  go  to  look  at  Jeff;  Harry  would  sit 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  in  a  hearty  voice  ask: 
"Well,  Jeff,  old  man,  how  do  you  feel  to-day?" 
Roxanne,  standing  beside,  would  look  intently  at 
Jeff,  dreaming  that  some  shadowy  recognition  of  this 
former  friend  had  passed  across  that  broken  mind — but 
the  head,  pale,  carven,  would  only  move  slowly  in  its 
sole  gesture  toward  the  light  as  if  something  behind  the 
blind  eyes  were  groping  for  another  light  long  since  gone 
out. 

These  visits  stretched  over  eight  years— at  Easter, 
Christmas,  Thanksgiving,  and  on  many  a  Sunday 
Harry  had  arrived,  paid  his  call  on  Jeff,  and  then  talked 
for  a  long  while  with  Roxanne  on  the  porch.  He  was 
devoted  to  her.  He  made  no  pretense  of  hiding,  no 
attempt  to  deepen,  this  relation.  She  was  his  best 
friend  as  the  mass  of  flesh  on  the  bed  there  had  been  his 
best  friend.  She  was  peace,  she  was  rest;  she  was  the 
past.  Of  his  own  tragedy  she  alone  knew. 

He  had  been  at  the  funeral,  but  since  then  the  com 
pany  for  which  he  worked  had  shifted  him  to  the  East 
and  only  a  business  trip  had  brought  him  to  the  vicinity 
of  Chicago.  Roxanne  had  written  him  to  come  when  he 
could — after  a  night  in  the  city  he  had  caught  a  train 
out. 

They  shook  hands  and  he  helped  her  move  two  rockers 
together. 

" How's  George?" 

"He's  fine,  Roxanne.     Seems  to  like  school." 

"Of  course  it  was  the  only  thing  to  do,  to  send  him." 

"Of  course— 

"You  miss  him  horribly,  Harry?" 

"Yes — I  do  miss  him.    He's  a  funny  boy " 

He  talked  a  lot  about  George.  Roxanne  was  inter 
ested.  Harry  must  bring  him  out  on  his  next  vacation. 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  299 

She  had  only  seen  him  once  in  her  life — a  child  in  dirty 
rompers. 

She  left  him  with  the  newspaper  while  she  prepared 
dinner — she  had  four  chops  to-night  and  some  late  vege 
tables  from  her  own  garden.  She  put  it  all  on  and  then 
called  him,  and  sitting  down  together  they  continued 
their  talk  about  George. 

"If  I  had  a  child—"  she  would  say. 

Afterward,  Harry  having  given  her  what  slender  ad 
vice  he  could  about  investments,  they  walked  through 
the  garden,  pausing  here  and  there  to  recognize  what 
had  once  been  a  cement  bench  or  where  the  tennis  court 
had  lain  .  .  . 

"Do  you  remember " 

^  Then  they  were  off  on  a  flood  of  reminiscences:  the 
day  they  had  taken  all  the  snap-shots  and  Jeff  had  been 
photographed  astride  the  calf;  and  the  sketch  Harry 
had  made  of  Jeff  and  Roxanne,  lying  sprawled  in  the 
grass,  their  heads  almost  touching.  There  was  to  have 
been  a  covered  lattice  connecting  the  barn-studio  with 
the  house,  so  that  Jeff  could  get  there  on  wet  days— 
the  lattice  had  been  started,  but  nothing  remained  ex 
cept  a  broken  triangular  piece  that  still  adhered  to  the 
house  and  resembled  a  battered  chicken  coop. 

"And  those  mint  juleps!" 

"And  Jeff's  note-book!  Do  you  remember  how  we'd 
laugh,  Harry,  when  we'd  get  it  out  of  his  pocket  and 
read  aloud  a  page  of  material.  And  how  frantic  he 
used  to  get?" 

"Wild !    He  was  such  a  kid  about  his  writing." 

They  were  both  silent  a  moment,  and  then  Harry 
said: 

"We  were  to  have  a  place  out  here,  too.  Do  you 
remember  ?"  We  were  to  buy  the  adjoining  twenty 
acres.  And  the  parties  we  were  going  to  have !" 


300  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

Again  there  was  a  pause,  broken  this  time  by  a  low 
question  from  Roxanne. 

"Do  you  ever  hear  of  her,  Harry  ?" 

"Why— yes,"  he  admitted  placidly.  "She's  in  Se 
attle.  She's  married  again  to  a  man  named  Horton,  a 
sort  of  lumber  king.  He's  a  great  deal  older  than  she 
is,  I  believe." 

"And  she's  behaving?" 

"Yes — that  is,  I've  heard  so.  She  has  every  thing, 
you  see.  Nothing  much  to  do  except  dress  up  for  this 
fellow  at  dinner-time." 

"I  see." 

Without  effort  he  changed  the  subject. 

"Are  you  going  to  keep  the  house?" 

"I  think  so,"  she  said,  nodding.  "I've  lived  here  so 
long,  Harry,  it'd  seem  terrible  to  move.  I  thought  of 
trained  nursing,  but  of  course  that'd  mean  leaving. 
I've  about  decided  to  be  a  boarding-house  lady." 

"Live  in  one?" 

"No.  Keep  one.  Is  there  such  an  anomaly  as  a 
boarding-house  lady  ?  Anyway  I'd  have  a  negress  and 
keep  about  eight  people  in  the  summer  and  two  or  three, 
if  I  can  get  them,  in  the  winter.  Of  course  I'll  have  to 
have  the  house  repainted  and  gone  over  inside." 

Harry  considered. 

"Roxanne,  why — naturally  you  know  best  what  you 
can  do,  but  it  does  seem  a  shock,  Roxanne.  You  came 
here  as  a  bride." 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "that's  why  I  don't  mind  re 
maining  here  as  a  boarding-house  lady." 

"I  remember  a  certain  batch  of  biscuits." 

"Oh,  those  biscuits,"  she  cried.  "Still,  from  all  I 
heard  about  the  way  you  devoured  them,  they  couldn't 
have  been  so  bad.  I  was  so  low  that  day,  yet  somehow 
I  laughed  when  the  nurse  told  me  about  those  biscuits." 


THE  LEES  OF  HAPPINESS  301 

"I  noticed  that  the  twelve  nail-holes  are  still  in  the 
library  wall  where  Jeff  drove  them." 

"Yes." 

It  was  getting  very  dark  now,  a  crispness  settled  in 
the  air;  a  little  gust  of  wind  sent  down  a  last  spray  of 
leaves.  Roxanne  shivered  slightly. 

"We'd  better  go  in." 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"It's  late.  I've  got  to  be  leaving.  I  go  East  to 
morrow." 

"Must  you?" 

They  lingered  for  a  moment  just  below  the  stoop, 
watching  a  moon  that  seemed  full  of  snow  float  out  of  the 
distance  where  the  lake  lay.  Summer  was  gone  and  now 
Indian  summer.  The  grass  was  cold  and  there  was  no 
mist  and  no  dew.  After  he  left  she  would  go  in  and 
light  the  gas  and  close  the  shutters,  and  he  would  go 
down  the  path  and  on  to  the  village.  To  these  two 
life  had  come  quickly  and  gone,  leaving  not  bitterness, 
but  pity;  not  disillusion,  but  only  pain.  There  was 
already  enough  moonlight  when  they  shook  hands  for 
each  to  see  the  gathered  kindness  in  the  other's  eyes. 


MR.  ICKY 

THE  QUINTESSENCE  OF  QUAINTNESS  IN 
ONE  ACT 

The  Scene  is  the  Exterior  of  a  Cottage  in  West  Issacshire 
on  a  desperately  Arcadian  afternoon  in  August. 
MR.  ICKY,  quaintly  dressed  in  the  costume  of  an  Eliza 
bethan  peasant,  is  pottering  and  doddering  among  the 
pots  and  dods.  He  is  an  old  man,  well  past  the  prime 
of  life,  no  longer  young.  From  the  fact  that  there  is 
a  burr  in  his  speech  and  that  he  has  absent-mindedly 
put  on  his  coat  wrongside  out,  we  surmise  that  he  is 
either  above  or  below  the  ordinary  superficialities  of 
life. 

Near  him  on  the  grass  lies  PETER,  a  little  boy.  PETER,'  of 
course,  has  his  chin  on  his  palm  like  the  pictures  of 
the  young  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  He  has  a  complete 
set  of  features,  including  serious,  sombre,  even  fu 
nereal,  gray  eyes — and  radiates  that  alluring  air  of 
never  having  eaten  food.  This  air  can  best  be  radiated 
during  the  afterglow  of  a  beef  dinner.  He  is  looking  at 
MR.  ICKY,  fascinated. 

Silence.  .  .  .     The  song  of  birds. 

PETER:  Often  at  night  I  sit  at  my  window  and  regard 
the  stars.  Sometimes  I  think  they're  my  stars.  .  .  . 
(Gravely)  I  think  I  shall  be  a  star  some  day.  .  .  . 

MR.  ICKY:  (Whimsically)  Yes,  yes  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  . 

PETER:  I  know  them  all:  Venus,  Mars,  Neptune, 
Gloria  Swanson. 

302 


MR.  ICKY  303 

MR.  ICKY:  I  don't  take  no  stock  in  astronomy.  .  .  . 
I've  been  thinking  o'  Lunnon,  laddie.  And  calling  to 
mind  my  daughter,  who  has  gone  for  to  be  a  type 
writer.  .  .  .  (He  sighs.) 

PETER:  I  liked  Ulsa,  Mr.  Icky;  she  was  so  plump,  so 
round,  so  buxom. 

MR.  ICKY:  Not  worth  the  paper  she  was  padded  with, 
laddie.  (He  stumbles  over  a  pile  of  pots  and  dods.) 

PETER:  How  is  your  asthma,  Mr.  Icky? 

MR.  ICKY:  Worse,  thank  God!  .  .  .  (Gloomily.)  I'm 
a  hundred  years  old.  .  .  .  I'm  getting  brittle. 

PETER  :  I  suppose  life  has  been  pretty  tame  since  you 
gave  up  petty  arson. 

MR.  ICKY:  Yes  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  .  You  see,  Peter,  lad 
die,  when  I  was  fifty  I  reformed  once — in  prison. 

PETER:  You  went  wrong  again  ? 

MR.  ICKY:  Worse  than  that.  The  week  before  my 
term  expired  they  insisted  on  transferring  to  me  the 
glands  of  a  healthy  young  prisoner  they  were  executing. 

PETER  :  And  it  renovated  you  ? 

MR.  ICKY:  Renovated  me !  It  put  the  Old  Nick  back 
into  me !  This  young  criminal  was  evidently  a  subur 
ban  burglar  and  a  kleptomaniac.  What  was  a  little 
playful  arson  in  comparison ! 

PETER:  (Awed)  How  ghastly!     Science  is  the  bunk. 

MR.  ICKY:  (Sighing)  I  got  him  pretty  well  subdued 
now.  'Tisn't  every  one  who  has  to  tire  out  two  sets 
o'  glands  in  his  lifetime.  I  wouldn't  take  another  set 
for  all  the  animal  spirits  in  an  orphan  asylum. 

PETER:  (Considering)  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  object 
to  a  nice  quiet  old  clergyman's  set. 

MR.  ICKY:  Clergymen  haven't  got  glands — they  have 
souls. 

(There  is  a  low,  sonorous  honking  ojff  stage  to  indi 
cate  that  a  large  motor-car  has  stopped  in  the 


3o4  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

immediate  vicinity.  Then  a  young  man  hand 
somely  attired  in  a  dress-suit  and  a  patent- 
leather  silk  hat  comes  onto  the  stage.  He  is 
very  mundane.  His  contrast  to  the  spirituality 
of  the  other  two  is  observable  as  far  back  as  the 
first  row  of  the  balcony.  This  is  RODNEY 
DIVINE.) 
DIVINE:  I  am  looking  for  Ulsa  Icky. 

(MR.  ICKY  rises  and  stands  tremulously  between 

two  dods.) 

MR.  ICKY:  My  daughter  is  in  Lunnon. 
DIVINE:  She  has  left  London.    She  is  coming  here. 
I  have  followed  her. 

(He  reaches  into  the  little  mother-of-pearl  satchel 
that  hangs  at  his  side  for  cigarettes.    He  selects 
one  and  scratching  a  match  touches  it  to  the  cigar- 
ette.     The  cigarette  instantly  lights?) 
DIVINE:  I  shall  wait. 

(He  waits.    Several  hours  pass.     There  is  no  sound 
except  an  occasional  cackle  or  hiss  from  the  dods 
as  they  quarrel  among  themselves.    Several  songs 
can  be  introduced  here  or  some  card  tricks  by 
DIVINE  or  a  tumbling  actt  as  desired.) 
DIVINE:  It's  very  quiet  here. 
MR.  ICKY:  Yes,  very  quiet.  .  .  . 

(Suddenly  a  loudly  dressed  girl  appears;  she  is 
very  worldly.  It  is  ULSA  ICKY.  On  her  is  one 
of  those  shapeless  faces  peculiar  to  early  Italian 
painting.) 

ULSA:  (In  a  coarse,  worldly  voice)  Feyther!    Here  I 
am !    Ulsa  did  what  ? 
MR.  ICKY:  (Tremulously)  Ulsa,  little  Ulsa. 

(They  embrace  each  other's  torsos.) 
MR.  ICKY:  (Hopefully)  You've  come  back  to  help 
with  the  ploughing. 


MR.  ICKY  305 

ULSA:  (Sullenly)  No,  feyther;  ploughing^  such  a 
beyther.  I'd  reyther  not. 

(Though  her  accent  is  broad,  the  content  of  her 
speech  is  sweet  and  clean.) 

DIVINE:  (Conciliatingly)  See  here,  Ulsa.  Let's  come 
to  an  understanding. 

(He  advances  toward  her  with  the  graceful,  even 
stride  that  made  him  captain  of  the  striding  team 
at  Cambridge.) 

ULSA:  You  still  say  it  would  be  Jack  ? 

MR.  ICKY  :  What  does  she  mean  ? 

DIVINE:  (Kindly)  My  dear,  of  course,  it  would  be 
Jack.  It  couldn't  be  Frank. 

MR.  ICKY:  Frank  who? 

ULSA  :  It  would  be  Frank ! 

(Some  risque  joke  can  be  introduced  here.) 

MR.  ICKY:  (Whimsically)  No  good  fighting  ...  no 
good  fighting.  .  .  . 

DIVINE:  (Reaching  out  to  stroke  her  arm  with  the 
powerful  movement  that  made  him  stroke  of  the  crew  at 
Oxford)  You'd  better  marry  me. 

ULSA:  (Scornfully)  Why,  they  wouldn't  let  me  in 
through  the  servants'  entrance  of  your  house. 

DIVINE:  (Angrily)  They  wouldn't!  Never  fear — you 
shall  come  in  through  the  mistress'  entrance. 

ULSA:  Sir! 

DIVINE  :  (In  confusion)  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  know 
what  I  mean  ? 

MR.  ICKY:  (Aching  with  whimsey)  You  want  to  marry 
my  little  Ulsa  ?  .  .  . 

DIVINE:  I  do. 

MR.  ICKY:  Your  record  is  clean. 

DIVINE:  Excellent.  I  have  the  best  constitution  in 
the  world- 

ULSA:  And  the  worst  by-laws. 


3o6  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

DIVINE:  At  Eton  I  was  a  member  at  Pop;  at  Rugby 
I  belonged  to  Near-beer.  As  a  younger  son  I  was 
destined  for  the  police  force 

MR.  ICKY:  Skip  that.  .  .  .    Have  you  money?  .  .  . 

DIVINE:  Wads  of  it.  I  should  expect  Ulsa  to  go 
down  town  in  sections  every  morning — in  two  Rolls- 
Royces.  I  have  also  a  kiddy-car  and  a  converted  tank. 
I  have  seats  at  the  opera 

ULSA:  (Sullenly)  I  can't  sleep  except  in  a  box.  And 
I've  heard  that  you  were  cashiered  from  your  club. 

MR.  ICKY:  A  cashier?  .  .  . 

DIVINE:  (Hanging  his  head)  I  was  cashiered. 

ULSA:  What  for? 

DIVINE:  (Almost  inaudibly)  I  hid  the  polo  balls  one 
day  for  a  joke. 

MR.  ICKY  :  Is  your  mind  in  good  shape  ? 

DIVINE:  (Gloomily)  Fair.  After  all  what  is  brilliance  ? 
Merely  the  tact  to  sow  when  no  one  is  looking  and  reap 
when  every  one  is. 

MR.  ICKY:  Be  careful.  ...  I  will  not  marry  my 
daughter  to  an  epigram.  .  .  . 

DIVINE:  (More  gloomily)  I  assure  you  I'm  a  mere 
platitude.  I  often  descend  to  the  level  of  an  innate 
idea. 

ULSA:  (Dully)  None  of  what  you're  saying  matters. 
I  can't  marry  a  man  who  thinks  it  would  be  Jack.  Why 
Frank  would 

DIVINE:  (Interrupting)  Nonsense! 

ULSA:  (Emphatically)  You're  a  fool! 

MR.  ICKY:  Tut — tut!  .  .  .  One  should  not  judge  .  .  . 
Charity,  my  girl.  What  was  it  Nero  said?— " With 
malice  toward  none,  with  charity  toward  all " 

PETER:  That  wasn't  Nero.  That  was  John  Drink- 
water. 

MR.  ICKY:  Come!  Who  is  this  Frank?  Who  is 
this  Jack  ? 


MR.  ICKY  307 

DIVINE:  (Morosely)  Gotch.  i 

ULSA:  Dempsey. 

DIVINE:  We  were  arguing  that  if  they  were  deadly 
enemies  and  locked  in  a  room  together  which  one  would 
come  out  alive.  Now  I  claimed  that  Jack  Dempsey 

would  take  one 

ULSA:  (Angrily)  Rot!    He  wouldn't  have  a— 
DIVINE:  (Quickly)  You  win. 
ULSA:  Then  I  love  you  again. 

MR.  ICKY:  So  I'm  going  to  lose  my  little  daugh 
ter.  ... 
ULSA:  YouVe  still  got  a  houseful  of  children. 

(CHARLES,  ULSA'S  brother,  coming  out  of  the  cot 
tage.  He  is  dressed  as  if  to  go  to  sea;  a  coil  of 
rope  is  slung  about  his  shoulder  and  an  anchor  is 
hanging  from  his  neck.) 

CHARLES:  (Not  seeing  them)  I'm  going  to  sea!  I'm 
going  to  sea ! 

(His  voice  is  triumphant) 
MR.  ICKY:  (Sadly)  You  went  to  seed  long  ago. 
CHARLES:  I've  been  reading  " Conrad." 
PETER:    (Dreamily)    "Conrad,"   ah!      "Two   Years 
Before  the  Mast,"  by  Henry  James. 
CHARLES:  What? 

PETER:  Walter  Pater's  version  of  "Robinson  Crusoe." 

CHARLES  :  (To  his  feyther)  I  can't  stay  here  and  rot 

with  you.     I  want  to  live  my  life.     I  want  to  hunt  eels. 

MR.    ICKY:  I    will    be    here  .  .  .  when    you    come 

back.  .  .  . 

CHARLES:  (Contemptuously)  Why,  the  worms  are  lick 
ing  their  chops  already  when  they  hear  your  name. 

(//  will  be  noticed  that  some  of  the  characters  have 

not  spoken  for  some  time.    It  will  improve  the 

technique  if  they  can  be  rendering  a  spirited 

saxophone  number.) 

MR.    ICKY:  (Mournfully)  These    vales,    these    hills, 


3o8  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

these  McConnick  harvesters — they  mean  nothing  to 
my  children.    I  understand. 

CHARLES:  (More  gently)  Then  you'll  think  of  me 
kindly,  feyther.  To  understand  is  to  forgive. 

MR.  ICKY:  No  ...  no.  ...  We  never  forgive  those 
we  can  understand.  .  .  .  We  can  only  forgive  those 
who  wound  us  for  no  reason  at  all.  .  .  . 

CHARLES:  (Impatiently)  I'm  so  beastly  sick  of  your 
human  nature  line.  And,  anyway,  I  hate  the  hours 
around  here. 

(Several  dozen  more  of  MR.  ICKY'S  children  trip 
out  of  the  house,  trip  over  the  grass,  and  trip 
over  the  pots  and  dods.     They  are  muttering  "We 
are  going  away,"  and  "We  are  leaving  you.") 
MR.  ICKY:  (His  heart  breaking)  They're  all  deserting 
me.    I've  been  too  kind.     Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the 
fun.     Oh,  for  the  glands  of  a  Bismarck. 

(There  is  a  honking  outside — probably  DIVINE'S 

chauffeur  growing  impatient  for  his  master.) 
MR.  ICKY:  (In  misery)  They  do  not  love  the  soil! 
They  have  been  faithless  to  the  Great  Potato  Tradition ! 
(He  picks  up  a  handful  of  soil  passionately  and  rubs  it 
on  his  bald  head.  Hair  sprouts.)  Oh,  Wordsworth, 
Wordsworth,  how  true  you  spoke ! 

11 No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force; 

She  does  not  hear  or  feel ; 
RolVd  round  on  earth's  diurnal  course 

In  some  one's  Oldsmobile." 

(They  all  groan  and  shouting  "Life"  and  "Jazz" 

move  slowly  toward  the  wings.) 

CHARLES:  Back  to  the  soil,  yes!  I've  been  trying  to 
turn  my  back  to  the  soil  for  ten  years ! 

ANOTHER  CHILD:  The  farmers  may  be  the  backbone 
of  the  country,  but  who  wants  to  be  a  backbone  ? 


MR.  ICKY  309 

ANOTHER  CHILD  :  I  care  not  who  hoes  the  lettuce  of  my 
country  if  I  can  eat  the  salad ! 

ALL:  Life!    Psychic    Research!    Jazz! 

MR.  ICKY:  (Struggling  with  himself)  I  must  be  quaint. 
That's  all  there  is.  It's  not  life  that  counts,  it's  the 
quaintness  you  bring  to  it.  ... 

ALL:  We're  going  to  slide  down  the  Riviera.  We've 
got  tickets  for  Piccadilly  Circus.  Life !  Jazz ! 

MR.  ICKY:  Wait.  Let  me  read  to  you  from  the  Bible. 
Let  me  open  it  at  random.  One  always  finds  something 
that  bears  on  the  situation. 

(He  finds  a  Bible  lying  in  one  of  the  dods  and  open 
ing  it  at  random  begins  to  read.) 

"Anab  and  Istemo  and  Anim,  Goson  and  Olon  and 
Gilo,  eleven  cities  and  their  villages.  Arab,  and  Ruma, 
and  Esaau 

CHARLES:  (Cruelly)  Buy  ten  more  rings  and  try 
again. 

MR.  ICKY:  (Trying  again)  "How  beautiful  art  thou 
my  love,  how  beautiful  art  thou !  Thy  eyes  are  dove's 
eyes,  besides  what  is  hid  within.  Thy  hair  is  as  flocks 
of  goats  which  come  up  from  Mount  Galaad—  Hm ! 
Rather  a  coarse  passage.  .  .  . 

(His  children  laugh  at  him  rudely,  shouting  "Jazz!" 
and  "All  life  is  primarily  suggestive/") 

MR.  ICKY:  (Despondently)  It  won't  work  to-day. 
(Hopefully)  Maybe  it's  damp.  (He  feels  it)  Yes,  it's 
damp.  .  .  .  There  was  water  in  the  dod.  ...  It 
won't  work. 

ALL:  It's  damp!    It  won't  work!    Jazz! 

ONE  OF  THE  CHILDREN:  Come,  we  must  catch  the 
six-thirty. 

(Any  other  cue  may  be  inserted  here.) 

MR.  ICKY:  Good-by.  .  .  . 

(They  all  go  out.    MR.  ICKY  is  left  alone.    He 


3io  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

sighs  and  walking  over  to  the  cottage  steps,  lies 
down,  and  closes  his  eyes. 

Twilight  has  come  down  and  the  stage  is  flooded 
with  such  light  as  never  was  on  land  or  sea. 
There  is  no  sound  except  a  sheep-herder's  wife 
in  the  distance  playing  an  aria  from  Beethoven's 
Tenth  Symphony,  on  a  mouth-organ.  The  great 
white  and  gray  moths  swoop  down  and  light  on 
the  old  man  until  he  is  completely  covered  by  them. 
But  he  does  not  stir. 

The  curtain  goes  up  and  down  several  times  to  de 
note  the  lapse  of  several  minutes.  A  good  comedy 
effect  can  be  obtained  by  having  MR.  ICKY  cling 
to  the  curtain  and  go  up  and  down  with  it.  Fire 
flies  or  fairies  on  wires  can  also  be  introduced  at 
this  point. 

Then  PETER  appears,  a  look  of  almost  imbecile 
sweetness  on  his  face.  In  his  hand  he  clutches 
something  and  from  time  to  time  glances  at  it  in 
a  transport  of  ecstasy.  After  a  struggle  with 
himself  he  lays  it  on  the  old  man's  body  and  then 
quietly  withdraws. 

The  moths  chatter  among  themselves  and  then  scurry 
away  in  sudden  fright.  And  as  night  deepens 
there  still  sparkles  there,  small,  white  and  round, 
breathing  a  subtle  perfume  to  the  West  Issac- 
shire  breeze,  PETER'S  gift  of  love — a  moth-ball. 

(The  play  can  end  at  this  point  or  can  go  on  indefi- 
l^tely.) 


JEMINA,   THE   MOUNTAIN   GIRL 

This  don't  pretend  to  be  "Literature."  This  is  just  a  tale 
for  red-blooded  folks  who  want  a  story  and  not  just  a  lot  of  "  psy 
chological"  stuff  or  "analysis."  Boy,  you'll  love  it!  Read  it 
here,  see  it  in  the  movies,  play  it  on  the  phonograph,  run  it 
through  the  sewing-machine. 

A  WILD  THING 

It  was  night  in  the  mountains  of  Kentucky.  Wild 
hills  rose  on  all  sides.  Swift  mountain  streams  flowed 
rapidly  up  and  down  the  mountains. 

Jemina  Tantrum  was  down  at  the  stream,  brewing 
whiskey  at  the  family  still. 

She  was  a  typical  mountain  girl. 

Her  feet  were  bare.  Her  hands,  large  and  powerful, 
hung  down  below  her  knees.  Her  face  showed  the 
ravages  of  work.  Although  but  sixteen,  she  had  for 
over  a  dozen  years  been  supporting  her  aged  pappy 
and  mappy  by  brewing  mountain  whiskey .» 

From  time  to  time  she  would  pause  in  her  task,  and, 
filling  a  dipper  full  of  the  pure,  invigorating  liquid,  would 
drain  it  off — then  pursue  her  work  with  renewed  vigor. 

She  would  place  the  rye  in  the  vat,  thresh  it  out  with 
her  feet  and,  in  twenty  minutes,  the  complete  oroduct 
would  be  turned  out. 

A  sudden  cry  made  her  pause  in  the  act  of  (draining  a 
dipper  and  look  up. 

"  Hello,"  said  a  voice.  It  came  from  a  man  clad  in 
hunting  boots  reaching  to  his  neck,  who  had  emerged 
from  the  wood. 

"Hi,  thar,"  she  answered  sullenly. 


3i2  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

"  Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  the  Tantrums'  cabin  ? " 

"Are  you  uns  from  the  settlements  down  thar?" 

She  pointed  her  hand  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
where  Louisville  lay.  She  had  never  been  there;  but 
once,  before  she  was  born,  her  great-grandfather,  old 
Gore  Tantrum,  had  gone  into  the  settlements  in  the  com 
pany  of  two  marshals,  and  had  never  come  back.  So 
the  Tantrums,  from  generation  to  generation,  had  learned 
to  dread  civilization. 

The  man  was  amused.  He  laughed  a  light  tinkling 
laugh,  the  laugh  of  a  Philadelphian.  Something  in  the 
ring  of  it  thrilled  her.  She  drank  off  another  dipper  of 
whiskey. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Tantrum,  little  girl?"  he  asked,  not 
without  kindness. 

She  raised  her  foot  and  pointed  her  big  toe  toward 
the  woods. 

"Thar  in  the  cabing  behind  those  thar  pines.  Old 
Tantrum  air  my  old  man." 

The  man  from  the  settlements  thanked  her  and  strode 
off.  He  was  fairly  vibrant  with  youth  and  personality. 
As  he  walked  along  he  whistled  and  sang  and  turned 
handsprings  and  flapjacks,  breathing  in  the  fresh,  cool 
air  of  the  mountains. 

The  air  around  the  still  was  like  wine. 

Jemina  Tantrum  watched  him  entranced.  No  one 
like  him  had  ever  come  into  her  life  before. 

She  sat  down  on  the  grass  and  counted  her  toes.  She 
counted  eleven. ,  She  had  learned  arithmetic  in  the 
mountain  school. 

A  MOUNTAIN  FEUD 

Ten  years  before  a  lady  from  the  settlements  had 
opened  a  school  on  the  mountain.  Jemina  had  no 


JEMINA,  THE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL        313 

money,  but  she  had  paid  her  way  in  whiskey,  bringing  a 
pailful  to  school  every  morning  and  leaving  it  on  Miss 
Lafarge's  desk.  Miss  Lafarge  had  died  of  delirium  tre- 
mens  after  a  year's  teaching,  and  so  Jemina's  education 
had  stopped. 

Across  the  still  stream  still  another  still  was  standing. 
It  was  that  of  the  Doldrums.  The  Doldrums  and  the 
Tantrums  never  exchanged  calls. 

They  hated  each  other. 

Fifty  years  before  old  Jem  Doldrum  and  old  Jem  Tan 
trum  had  quarrelled  in  the  Tantrum  cabin  over  a  game 
of  slapjack.  Jem  Doldrum  had  thrown  the  king  of 
hearts  in  Jem  Tantrum's  face,  and  old  Tantrum,  en 
raged,  had  felled  the  old  Doldrum  with  the  nine  of  dia 
monds.  Other  Doldrums  and  Tantrums  had  joined  in 
and  the  little  cabin  was  soon  filled  with  flying  cards. 
Harstrum  Doldrum,  one  of  the  younger  Doldrums,  lay 
stretched  on  the  floor  writhing  in  agony,  the  ace  of  hearts 
crammed  down  his  throat.  Jem  Tantrum,  standing  in 
the  doorway,  ran  through  suit  after  suit,  his  face  alight 
with  fiendish  hatred.  Old  Mappy  Tantrum  stood  on 
the  table  wetting  down  the  Doldrums  with  hot  whiskey. 
Old  Heck  Doldrum,  having  finally  run  out  of  trumps, 
was  backed  out  of  the  cabin,  striking  left  and  right  with 
his  tobacco  pouch,  and  gathering  around  him  the  rest  of 
his  clan.  Then  they  mounted  their  steers  and  galloped 
furiously  home. 

That  night  old  man  Doldrum  and  his  sons,  vowing 
vengeance,  had  returned,  put  a  ticktock  on  the  Tan 
trum  window,  stuck  a  pin  in  the  doorbell,  and  beaten  a 
retreat. 

A  week  later  the  Tantrums  had  put  Cod  Liver  Oil 
in  the  Doldrums'  still,  and  so,  from  year  to  year,  the 
feud  had  continued,  first  one  family  being  entirely 
wiped  out,  then  the  other. 


314  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 


THE  BIRTH  OF  LOVE 

Every  day  little  Jemina  worked  the  still  on  her  side  of 
the  stream,  and  Boscoe  Doldrum  worked  the  still  on  his 
side. 

Sometimes,  with  automatic  inherited  hatred,  the 
feudists  would  throw  whiskey  at  each  other,  and  Jemina 
would  come  home  smelling  like  a  French  table  d'h6te. 

But  now  Jemina  was  too  thoughtful  to  look  across 
the  stream. 

How  wonderful  the  stranger  had  been  and  how  oddly 
he  was  dressed!  In  her  innocent  way  she  had  never 
believed  that  there  were  any  civilized  settlements  at 
all,  and  she  had  put  the  belief  in  them  down  to  the 
credulity  of  the  mountain  people. 

She  turned  to  go  up  to  the  cabin,  and,  as  she  turned 
something  struck  her  in  the  neck.  It  was  a  sponge, 
thrown  by  Boscoe  Doldrum — a  sponge  soaked  in  whis 
key  from  his  still  on  the  other  side  of  the  stream. 

"Hi,  thar,  Boscoe  Doldrum,"  she  shouted  in  her  deep 
bass  voice. 

"  Yo !  Jemina  Tantrum .    Gosh  ding  yoM ' '  he  returned . 

She  continued  her  way  to  the  cabin. 

The  stranger  was  talking  to  her  father.  Gold  had 
been  discovered  on  the  Tantrum  land,  and  the  stranger, 
Edgar  Edison,  was  trying  to  buy  the  land  for  a  song. 
He  was  considering  what  song  to  offer. 

She  sat  upon  her  hands  and  watched  him. 

He  was  wonderful.    When  he  talked  his  lips  moved. 

She  sat  upon  the  stove  and  watched  him. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  blood-curdling  scream.  The 
Tantrums  rushed  to  the  windows. 

It  was  the  Doldrums. 

They  had  hitched  their  steers  to  trees  and  concealed 


JEMINA,  THE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL        315 

themselves  behind  the  bushes  and  flowers,  and  soon  a 
perfect  rattle  of  stones  and  bricks  beat  against  the  win 
dows,  bending  them  inward. 

"Father!  father!"  shrieked  Jemina. 

Her  father  took  down  his  slingshot  from  his  slingshot 
rack  on  the  wall  and  ran  his  hand  lovingly  over  the  elas 
tic  band.  He  stepped  to  a  loophole.  Old  Mappy  Tan 
trum  stepped  to  the  coalhole. 

A  MOUNTAIN  BATTLE 

The  stranger  was  aroused  at  last.  Furious  to  get  at 
the  Doldrums,  he  tried  to  escape  from  the  house  by  crawl 
ing  up  the  chimney.  Then  he  thought  there  might  be 
a  door  under  the  bed,  but  Jemina  told  him  there  was  not. 
He  hunted  for  doors  under  the  beds  and  sofas,  but  each 
time  Jemina  pulled  him  out  and  told  him  there  were  no 
doors  there.  Furious  with  anger,  he  beat  upon  the 
door  and  hollered  at  the  Doldrums.  They  did  not 
answer  him,  but  kept  up  their  fusillade  of  bricks  and 
stones  against  the  window.  Old  Pappy  Tantrum  knew 
that  as  soon  as  they  were  able  to  effect  an  aperture  they 
would  pour  in  and  the  fight  would  be  over. 

Then  old  Heck  Doldrum,  foaming  at  the  mouth  and 
expectorating  on  the  ground,  left  and  right,  led  the 
attack. 

The  terrific  slingshots  of  Pappy  Tantrum  had  not 
been  without  their  effect.  A  master  shot  had  disabled 
one  Doldrum,  and  another  Doldrum,  shot  almost  inces 
santly  through  the  abdomen,  fought  feebly  on. 

Nearer  and  nearer  they  approached  the  house. 

"We  must  fly/'  shouted  the  stranger  to  Jemina.  "I 
will  sacrifice  myself  and  bear  you  away." 

"No,"  shouted  Pappy  Tantrum,  his  face  begrimed. 
"You  stay  here  and  fit  on.  I  will  bar  Jemina  away.  I 
will  bar  Mappy  away.  I  will  bar  myself  away." 


3i 6  TALES  OF  THE  JAZZ  AGE 

The  man  from  the  settlements,  pale  and  trembling 
with  anger,  turned  to  Ham  Tantrum,  who  stood  at  the 
door  throwing  loophole  after  loophole  at  the  advancing 
Doldrums. 

"Will  you  cover  the  retreat?" 

But  Ham  said  that  he  too  had  Tantrums  to  bear 
away,  but  that  he  would  leave  himself  here  to  help  the 
stranger  cover  the  retreat,  if  he  could  think  of  a  way  of 
doing  it. 

Soon  smoke  began  to  filter  through  the  floor  and  ceil 
ing.  Shem  Doldrum  had  come  up  and  touched  a  match 
to  old  Japhet  Tantrum's  breath  as  he  leaned  from  a 
loophole,  and  the  alcoholic  flames  shot  up  on  all  sides. 

The  whiskey  in  the  bathtub  caught  fire.  The  walls 
began  to  fall  in. 

Jemina  and  the  man  from  the  settlements  looked  at 
each  other. 

"Jemina,"  he  whispered. 

"Stranger,"  she  answered. 

"We  will  die  together,"  he  said.  "If  we  had  lived  I 
would  have  taken  you  to  the  city  and  married  you. 
With  your  ability  to  hold  liquor,  your  social  success 
would  have  been  assured." 

She  caressed  him  idly  for  a  moment,  counting  her  toes 
softly  to  herself.  The  smoke  grew  thicker.  Her  left 
leg  was  on  fire. 

She  was  a  human  alcohol  lamp. 

Their  lips  met  in  one  long  kiss  and  then  a  wall  fell  on 
them  and  blotted  them  out. 

"As  ONE." 

When  the  Doldrums  burst  through  the  ring  of  flame, 
they  found  them  dead  where  they  had  fallen,  their 
arms  about  each  other. 


JEMINA,  THE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL        317 

Old  Jem  Doldrum  was  moved. 

He  took  off  his  hat. 

He  filled  it  with  whiskey  and  drank  it  off. 

"They  air  dead,"  he  said  slowly,  "they  hankered 
after  each  other.  The  fit  is  over  now.  We  must  not 
part  them." 

So  they  threw  them  together  into  the  stream  and  the 
two  splashes  they  made  were  as  one. 


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